SAINT  ABE 


(ALE    OF 


T~ i 

3 


i  i  Y 


SAINT   ABE    AND    HIS    SEVEN 
WIVES 


SAINT    ABE   AND    HIS 
SEVEN   WIVES 


®alt  of  salt  Italic  (iTi 


GEORGE    ROUTLEDGE    AND    SONS 

NEW  YORK :  416,  BROOME  STREET 

187* 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871, 

BY  G20JIGE  EOTJTLEDGE  &  SONS, 
in  tbs  OfiW  o<  tie  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


LANGE  & 
PRINTERS  AND  8TEREOTYPERS, 
108, 110, 1124  114  WoorterSt^ 
NEW  YOEt. 


CONTENTS. 


MM 

DEDICATION:   TO  OLD  DAN  CHAUCER  VU 

APPROACHING  UTAH.— THE  BOSS'S  TALE! 

PASSING  THE  RANCHE    .           .           •          •          •          •          •  3 

JOE  WILSON  GOES  A-COURTING           •          •         •         •     •  7 

SAINT  AND  DISCIPLE .  12 

THE  BOOK  OF   MORMON ,     .  1 8 

JOE  ENDS  HIS  STORY.— FIRST  GLIMPSE  OF  UTAH           .  3! 

THE  CITY  OF  THE  SAINTS  : 

AMONG  THE  PASTURES. — SUMMER  EVENING  DIALOGUE  4! 

WITHIN  THE  CITY. — SAINT  ABE  AND  THE  SEVEN           .  68 

PROMENADE— MAIN   STREET,    UTAH 8 1 

WITHIN  THE  SYNAGOGUE.— SERMONIZETH  THE  PROPHET  98 

THE  FALLING  OF  THE  THUNDERBOLT         .           .           .      .  IO8 

LAST  EPISTLE  OF  ST.   ABE  TO   THE  POLYGAMISTS           .  Il8 

THE  FARM  IN  THE  VALLEY.— SUNSET  (1871).         «         •     .  151 


925821 


TO   OLD  DAN  CHAUCER. 


Maypole  dance  and  Whitsun  ale, 
Sports  of  peasants  in  the  dale. 
Harvest  mirth  and  junketling^ 
Fireside  play  and  kiss-in-ring, 
Ancient  fun  and  wit  and  easf,— 
Gone  are  one  and  all  of  these ; 
AH  the  pleasant  pastime  planned 
In  the  green  old  Mother-land: 
Gone  are  these  and  gone  the  time 
Of  the  breezy  English  rhyme. 
Sung  to  make  men  glad  and  wise 
By  great  Bards  with  twinkling  eyes  : 
Gone  the  tale  and  gone  the  song 
Sound  as  nut-brown  ale  and  strong^ 
Freshening  the  sultry  sense 
Out  of  idle  impotence^ 


DEDICATION. 

Sowing  features  dull  or  bright 
With  deep  dimples  of  delight  \ 

Thro'  the.  Mother-land  I  went, 
Seeking  these,  half  indolent : 
Up  and  down,  I  saw  them  not; 
Only  found  them,  half-forgo  f, 
Buried  in  long-darken' d  nooks 
With  thy  barrels  of  old  books, 
Where  the  light  and  love  and  mirth 
Of  the  morning  days  of  earth 
Sleeps,  like  light  of  sunken  suns 
Brooding  deep  in  cob-webb'd  tuns  / 
Everywhere  I  found  instead, 
Hanging  her  dejected  head, 
Barbing  shafts  of  bitter  wit, 
The  pale  Modern  Spirit  sit — 
While  her  shadow,  great  as 
Cast  upon  the  island  fogs, 
In  the  midst  of  all  things  dint 
Loom'd,  gigantically  grim. 


DEDICATION.  ix 

Honest  Chaucer,  thee  I  greet 
In  a  verse  with  blithesome  feet, 
And  thd1  modern  bards  may  stare, 
Crack  a  passing joke  with  Cart! 
Take  a  merry  song  and  true 
Fraught  with  inner  meanings  too  / 
Goodman  Dull  may  croak  and  scowls- • 
Leave  him  hooting  to  the  owl! 
Tight-laced  Prudery  may  turn 
Angry  back  with  eyes  that  burn, 
Reading  on  from  page  to  page 
Scrofulous  novels  of  the  age  / 
Fools  may  frown  and  humbugs  rai?9 
Not  for  them  I  tell  the  Tale; 
Not  for  them,  but  such  as  thee% 
Wise  old  English  JOLLITY  J 


Newport,  October,  1871. 


APPROACHING  UTAH.— THE  BOSS'S  TALE. 


i. 

PASSING  THE  RANCHE. 


"  GRRR  !  "  shrieked  the  boss,  with  teeth  clench'd 
tight, 

Just  as  the  lone  ranche  hove  in  sight, 

~%A. 
And  with  a  face  of  ghastly  hue 

He  flogg'd  the  horses  till  they  flew, 
As  if  the  devil  were  at  their  back, 
Along  the  wild  and  stony  track. 
From  side  to  side  the  waggon  swung, 
While  to  the  quaking  seat  I  clung. 
Dogs  bark'd  ;  on  each  side  of  the  pass 
The  cattle  grazing  on  the  grass 
Raised  heads  and  stared  ;  and  with  a  cry 
Out  the  men  rush'd  as  we  roll'd  by. 


4  THE  BOSS'S  TALE. 

"  Grrr ! "  shriek'd  the  boss  ;  and  o'er  and  o'er 
He  tJogg'd  the  foaming  steeds  and  swore  ; 
Harder  and  harder  grew  his  face 
As  by  the  ranche  we  swept  apace, 
And  faced  the  hill,  and  past  the  pond, 
And  gallop' d  up  the  height  beyond, 
Nor  tightened  rein  till  field  and  farm 
Were  hidden  by  the  mountain's  arm 
A  mile  behind  ;  when,  hot  and  spent, 
The  horses  paused  on  the  ascent. 
And  mopping  from  his  brow  the  sweat, 
The  boy  glanced  round  with  teeth  still  set, 
And  panting,  with  his  eyes  on  me, 
Smil'd  with  a  look  of  savage  glee. 


Joe  Wilson  is  the  boss's  name, 
A  Western  vuoy  well  known  to  fame. 
He  goes  about  the  dangerous  land 
His  life  for  ever  in  his  hand  ; 


PASSING  THE  RANCHE.  5 

Has  lost  three  fingers  in  a  fray, 

Has  scalp'd  his  Indian  too  they  say ; 

Between  the  white  man  and  the  red 

Four  times  he  hath  been  left  for  dead  ; 

Can  drink,  and  swear,  and  laugh,  and  brawl, 

And  keeps  his  big  heart  thro*  it  all 

Tender  for  babes  and  women. 

He 

Turned,  smiled,  and  nodded  savagely ; 
Then,  with  a  dark  look  in  his  eyes 
In  answer  to  my  dumb  surprise, 
Pointed  with  jerk  of  the  whip's  heft 
Back  to  the  place  that  we  had  left, 
And  cried  aloud, 

"  I  guess  you  think 
I'm  mad,  or  vicious,  or  in  drink. 
But  theer  you're  wrong.     I  never  pass 
The  tanche  down  theer  and  bit  of  grass, 
I  never  pass  5em,  night  nor  day, 
But  the  fit  takes  me  jest  that  way! 


6  THE  BOSS'S  TALE. 

The  bosses  know  as  well  as  me 
What's  coming,  miles  afore  we  see 
The  dern'd  old  corner  of  a  place, 
And  they  git  ready  for  the  race  ! 
Lord  !  if  I  didn't  lash  and  sweer, 
And  ease  my  rage  out  passing  theer, 
Guess  I  should  go  clean  mad,  that's  all. 
And  thet's  the  reason  why  I  call 
This  turn  of  road  where  I  am  took 
Jest  Old  Nick's  Gallop  i" 

Then  his  look 

Grew  more  subdued  yet  darker  still ; 
And  as  the  horses  up  the  hill 
With  loosen'd  rein  toil'd  slowly,  he 
Went  on  in  half  soliloquy, 
Indifferent  almost  if  I  heard, 
And  grimly  grinding  out  each  word. 


n. 

JOE  WILSON  GOES  A-COURTING. 

"  There  was  a  time,  and  no  mistake, 

When  thet  same  ranche  down  in  the  brake 

Was  pleasanter  a  heap  to  me 

Than  any  sight  on  land  or  sea. 

The  hosses  knew  it  like  their  master, 

Smelt  it  miles  orf,  and  spank' d  the  faster! 

Ay,  bent  to  reach  thet  very  spot, 

Flew  tilfthey  halted  steaming  hot 

Sharp  opposite  the  door,  among 

The  chicks  and  children  old  and  young  ; 

And  down  I'd  jump,  and  all  the  go 

Was  •'  Fortune,  boss  !'  and  *  Welcome,  Joe  !' 

And  Cissy  with  her  shining  face, 

Tho*  she  was  missus  of  the  place, 


8  THE  BOSS'S  TALE. 

Stood  larfing,  hands  upon  her  hips  ; 

And  when  upon  her  rosy  lips 

I  put  my  mouth  and  gave  her  one, 

She'd  cuff  me,  and  enjy  the  fun  ! 

She  was  a  widow  young  and  tight, 

Her  chap  had  died  in  a  free  fight, 

And  here  she  lived,  and  round  her  had 

Two  chicks,  three  brothers,  and  her  dad, 

All  making  money  fast  as  hay, 

And  doing  better  every  day. 

Waal !)  guess  tho'  I  was  peart  and  swift, 

Spooning  was  never  much  my  gift ; 

But  Cissy  was  a  gal  so  swreet, 

So  fresh,  so  spicy,  and  so  neat, 

It  put  your  wits  all  out  o'  place, 

Only  to  star'  into  her  face. 

Skin  whiter  than  a  new-laid  egg, 

Lips  full  of  juice,  and  secfiNa  leg  ! 

A  smell  about  her,  morn  and  e'en, 

Like  fresh-bleach'd  linen  on  a  green ; 


JOE  WILSON  GOES  A-COURTING. 

And  from  her  hand  when  she  took  mine, 
The  warmth  ran  up  like  sherry  wine  ; 
And  if  in  liquor  I  made  free 
To  pull  her  larfing  on  my  knee, 
Why,  there  she'd  sit,  and  feel  so  nice, 
Her  heer  all  scent,  her  breath  all  spice ! 
See  !  women  hate,  both  young  and  old, 
A  chap  that's  over  shy  and  cold, 
And  fire  of  all  sorts  kitches  quick, 
And  Cissy  seem'd  to  feel  full  slick 
The  same  fond  feelings,  and  at  last 
Grew  kinder  every  time  I  passed ; 
And  all  her  face,  from  eyes  to  chin, 
Said  '  Bravo,  Joe  !     You're  safe  to  win !' 
And  tho'  we  didn't  fix,  d'ye  see, 
In  downright  words  that  it  should  be, 
Ciss  and  her  fam'ly  understood 
That  she  and  me  would  jine  for  good. 

Guess  I  was  like  a  thirsty  (boss  j 

^-— - 
Dead  beat  for  days,  who  comes  across 


io  THE  BOSS'S  TALE. 

) 
A  fresh  clear  beck,  and  on  the  brink 

Scoops  out  his  shaky  hand  to  drink ; 

Or  like  a  gal  or  boy  of  three, 

With  eyes  upon  a  pippin-tree ; 

Or  like  some  Injin  cuss  who  sees 

A  bottle  of  rum  among  the  trees, 

And  by  the  bit  of  smouldering  log, 

Where  squatters  camp'd  and  took  their  grog1 

The  night  afore.     Waal ! "  (here  he  ground 

His  teeth  again  with  savage  sound) 

"  Waal,  stranger,  fancy,  jest  for  fun, 

The  feelings  of  the  thirsty  one, 

If,  jest  as  he  scoop'd  out  his  hand, 

The  water  turn'd  to  dust  and  sand ! 

Or  fancy  how  the  lad  would  scream 

To  see  thet  fruit-tree  jest  a  dream  ! 

Or  guess  how  thet  poor  Injin  cuss, 

Would  dance  and  swear,  and  screech  and  fuss, 

If  when  he'd  drawn  the  cork  and  tried 

To  get  a  gulp  of  rum  inside, 


JOE  WILSON  GOES  A-COURTING.        \\ 

Twarn't  anything  in  thet  theer  style, 
But  physic  stuff  or  stinking  ile  ! 
Ah  !  you've  a  notion  now,  I  guess, 
Of  how  all  ended  in  a  mess, 
And  how  when  I  was  putting  in 
My  biggest  card  and  thought  to  win, 
The  Old  One  taught  her  how  to  cheat, 
And  yer  I  found  myself,  clean  beat ! " 


ra. 

SAINT  AND  DISCIPLE. 

Joe  Wilson  paused,  and  gazed  straight  down, 

With  gritting  teeth  and  bitter  frown, 

And  not  till  I  entreated  him 

Did  he  continue, — fierce  and  grim, 

With  knitted  brow  and  teeth  clench'd  tight. 

"  Along  this  way  one  summer  night, 
Jest  as  I  meant  to  take  the  prize, 
Passed  an  APOSTLE — dern  his  eyes  ! 
On  his  old  pony,  gravel-eyed, 
His  legs  a-dangling  down  each  side, 
With  twinkling  eyes  and  wheedling  smile, 
Grinning  beneath  his  broad-brimm'd  tile, 


SAINT  AND  DISCIPLE.  13 

With  heer  all  scent  and  shaven  face, 

He  came  a-trotting  to  the  place. 

My  luck  was  bad,  I  wasn't  near, 

But  busy  many  a  mile  from  yer ; 

And  what  I  tell  was  told  to  me 

By  them  as  were  at  hand  to  see. 

'Twarn't  every  day,  I  reckon,  they 

Saw  an  Apostle  pass  their  way ! 

And  Cissy,  being  kind  o'  soft, 

And  empty  in  the  upper  loft, 

Was  full  of  downright  joy  and  pride 

To  hev  thet  saint  at  her  fireside — 

One  of  the  seventy  they  call 

The  holiest  holy — dern  'em  all ! 

O  he  was  'cute  and  no  mistake, 

Deep  as  Salt  Lake,  and  wide  awake  ! 

Theer  at  the  ranche  three  days  he  stayed, 

And  well  he  knew  his  lying  trade. 

'Twarn't  long  afore  he  heard  full  free 

About  her  larks  and  thet  with  me, 


14  THE  BOSS'S  TALE. 

And  how  'twas  quite  the  fam'ly  plan 

To  hev  me  for  her  second  man. 

At  fust  thet  old  Apostle  said 

Little,  but  only  shook  his  head  ; 

But  you  may  bet  he'd  no  intent 

To  let  things  go  as  things  had  went. 

Three  nights  he  stayed,  and  every  night 

He  squeezed  her  hand  a  bit  more  tight ; 

And  every  night  he  didn't  miss 

To  give  a  loving  kiss  to  Ciss  ; 

And  tho'  his  fust  was  on  her  brow, 

He  ended  with  her  mouth,  somehow. 

O,  but  he  was  a  knowing  one, 

The  Apostle  Hiram  Higginson  ! 

Grey  as  a  badger's  was  his  heer, 

His  age  was  over  sixty  year 

(Her  grandfather  was  little  older), 

So  short,  his  head  just  touch' d  her  shoulder; 

His  face  all  grease,  his  voice  all  puff, 

His  eyes  two  currants  stuck  in  duff ; — 


HOLY  WOOING.  15 

Call  thet  a  man  ! — then  look  at  me  ! 
Thretty  year  old  and  six  foot  three, 
Afear'd  o'  nothing  morn  nor  night, 
The  man  don't  walk  I  wouldn't  fight ! 
Women  is  women  !     Thet's  their  style — 
Talk  reason  to  them  and  they'll  bile  ; 
But  baste  'em  soft  as  any  pigeon, 

With  lies  and  rubbish  and  religion ; 

\  -AX* 
Don't  talk  of  flesh  and  blood  and  feeling,  J  ^ 

But  Holy  Ghost  and  blessed  healing; 
Don't  name  things  in  too  plain  a  way, 
Look  a  heap  warmer  than  you  say, 

yr'i 

Make  'em  believe  they're  serving  true 
The  Holy  Spirit  and  not  you, 
Prove  all  the  world  but  you's  damnation, 
And  call  your  kisses  jest  salvation ; 
Do  this,  and  press  'em  on  the  sly, 
You're  safe  to  win  'em.     Jest  you  try ! 

"  Fust  thing  I  heerd  of  all  this  game, 
One  night  when  to  the  ranche  I  came, 


16  THE  BOSS'S  TALE. 

Jump'd  down,  ran  in,  saw  Cissy  theer, 
And  thought  her  kind  o'  cool  and  queer  ; 
For  when  I  caught  her  with  a  kiss, 
'Twarn't  that  she  took  the  thing  amiss, 
But  kept  stone  cool  and  gev  a  sigh, 
And  wiped  her  mouth  upon  the  sly 
On  her  white  milkin'-apron.     '  Waal/ 
Says  I,  '  you're  out  o'  sorts,  my  gel ! ' 
And  with  a  squeamish  smile  for  me, 
Like  folks  hev  when  they're  sick  at  sea, 
Says  she,  '  O,  Joseph,  ere  too  late, 
I  am  awaken' d  to  my  state — 
How  pleasant  and  how  sweet  it  is 
To  be  in  sech  a  state  of  bliss  ! ' 
I  stared  and  gaped,  and  turned  to  Jim 
Her  brother,  and  cried  out  to  him, 
'  Hullo,  mate,  what's  the  matter  here  t 
What's  come  to  Cissy  ?     Is  she  queer  ?' 
Jim  gev  a  grin  and  answered  '  Yes, 
A  trifle  out  o'  sorts,  I  guess.' 


CISSF  INCLINES  TO  PIETY.  17 

But  Cissy  here  spoke  up  and  said, 

'  It  ain't  my  stomach,  nor  my  head, 

It  ain't  my  flesh,  it  ain't  my  skin, 

It's  holy  spirits  here  within  !' 

'  Waal,'  says  I,  meanin'  to  be  kind, 

'  I  must  be  off,  for  I'm  behind ; 

But  next  time  that  I  pass  this  way 

We'll  fix  ourselves  without  delay. 

I  know  what  your  complaint  is,  Ciss, 

I've  seen  the  same  in  many  a  miss, 

Keep  up  your  spirits,  thet's  your  plan, 

You're  lonely  here  without  a  man, 

And  you  shall  hev  as  good  a  one 

As  e'er  druv  hoss  beneath  the  sun  ! ' 

At  that  I  buss'd  her  with  a  smack, 

Turn'd  out,  jump'd  up,  and  took  the  track, 

And  lading  druv  along  the  pass. 

"  Theer !     Guess  I  was  as  green  as  grass !" 


IV. 

THE  BOOK  OF  MORMON. 

"  'Twas  jest  a  week  after  thet  day 
When  down  I  druv  again  this  way. 
My  heart  was  light ;  and  'neath  the  box 
I'd  got  a  shawl  and  two  fine  frocks 
For  Cissy.     On  in  spanking  style 
The  hosses  went  mile  arter  mile  ; 
The  sun  was  blazing  golden  bright, 
The  sunflowers  burning  in  the  light, 
The  cattle  in  the  golden  gleer     ^ 
Wading  for  coolness  everywheer 
Among  the  shinin'  ponds,  with  flies 
As  thick  as  pepper  round  their  eyes 
And  on  their  heads.     See !  as  I  went 
Whistling  like  mad  and  waal  content, 


THE  BOOK  OF  MORMON.  19 

Altho'  'twas  broad  bright  day  all  round, 
A  cock  crow'd,  and  I  thought  the  sound 
Seem'd  pleasant.  Twice  or  thrice  he 

crow'd, 

And  then  up  to  the  ranche  I  rode. 
Since  then  I've  often  heerd  folk  say 
When  a  cock  crows  in  open  day 
It's  a  bad  sign,  announcin'  clear 
Black  luck  or  death  to  those  thet  hear 

"  When  I  drew  up,  all  things  were  still. 

I  saw  the  boys  far  up  the  hill 

Tossin'  the  hay  ;  but  at  the  door 

No  Cissy  stood  as  oft  afore. 

No,  not  a  soul  there,  left  nor  right, 

Her  very  chicks  were  out  o'  sight. 

So  down  I  jump'd,  and  '  Ciss  ! '  I  cried, 

But  not  a  sign  of  her  outside. 

With  thet  into  the  house  I  ran, 

But  found  no  sight  of  gel  or  man— 


20  THE  BOSS'S  TALE. 

All  empty.     Thinks  I,  *  this  is  queer  !  '  — 
Look'd  in  the  dairy  —  no  one  theer  ; 
Then  loiter'd  round  the  kitchen  track 
Into  the  orchard  at  the  back  : 
Under  the  fruit-trees'  shade  I  pass'd,  .  . 
Thro'  the  green  bushes,  .  .  .  and  at  last 
Found,  as  the  furthest  path  I  trode, 
The  gel  I  wanted.     Ye  .  .  .  s  !  by  --- 


"The  gel  I  wanted  —  ay,  I  found 
More  than  I  wanted,  you'll  be  bound  ! 
Theer,  seated  on  a  wooden  cheer, 
With  bows  and  ribbons  in  her  heer, 
Her  hat  a-swinging  on  a  twig 
Close  by,  sat  Ciss  in  her  best  rig, 
And  at  her  feet  that  knowing  one, 
The  Apostle  Hiram  Higginson  ! 
They  were  too  keen  to  notice  me, 
So  I  held  back  behind  a  tree 


IN  THE  ORCHARD.  21 

And  watch'd  'em.     Never  night  nor  day 

Did  I  see  Cissy  look  so  gay, 

Her  eyes  all  sparkling  blue  and  bright, 

Her  face  all  sanctified  delight. 

She  hed  her  gown  tuck'd  up  to  show 

Embrider'd  petticoat  below, 

And  jest  a  glimpse,  below  the  white, 

Of  dainty  leg  in  stocking  tight 

With  crimson  clocks  ;  and  on  her  knee 

She  held  an  open  book,  which  he, 

Thet  dern'd  Apostle  at  her  feet, 

With  her  low  milking  stool  for  seat, 

Was  reading  out  all  clear  and  pat, 

Keeping  the  place  with  finger  fat ; 

Creeping  more  close  to  book  and  letter 

To  feel  the  warmth  of  his  text  better, 

His  crimson  face  like  a  cock's  head 

With  his  emotion  as  he  read, 

And  now  and  then  his  eyes  he'd  close  \ 

Jest  like  a  cock  does  when  he  crows ! 


22  THE  BOSS'S  TALE. 

Above  the  heads  of  thet  strange  two 
The  shade  was  deep,  the  sky  was  blue, 
The  place  was  full  of  warmth  and  smell, 
All  round  the  fruit  and  fruit-leaves  fell, 
And     that    Saint's     voice,    when    all    was 

still, 
Was  like  the  groanin'  of  a  mill. 

"  At  last  he  stops  for  lack  of  wind, 
And  smiled  with  sarcy  double-chinn'd 
Fat  face  at  Cissy,  while  she  cried, 
Rocking  herself  from  side  to  side, 
'  O  Bishop,  them  are  words  of  bliss ! ' 
And  then  he  gev  a  long  fat  kiss 
On  her  warm  hand,  and  edged  his  stool 
Still  closer.     Could  a  man  keep  cool 
And  see  it  ?     Trembling  thro'  and  thro* 
I  walked  right  up  to  thet  theer  two, 
And  caught  the  dern'd  old  lump  of  duff 
Jest  by  the  breeches  and  the  scruff, 


JOE  TAKES  DESPERATE  MEASURES.    23 

And  chuck'd  him  off,  and  with  one  kick 
Sent  his  stool  arter  him  right  slick — 
While  Cissy  scream'd  with  frighten'd  face, 
'  Spare  him  !  O  spare  that  man  of  grace  ! ' 

"'Spare  him  !'  I  cried,  and  gev  a  shout, 
'  What's  this  yer  shine  you  air  about — 
What  cuss  is  this  that  I  jest  see 
With  that  big  book  upon  your  knee, 
Cuddling  up  close  and  making  sham 
To  read  a  heap  of  holy  flam  ?' 
Then  Cissy  clasp'd  her  hands,  and  said, 
While   that    dern'd    Saint    sat    fierce    and 

red, 

Mopping  his  brow  with  a  black  frown, 
And  squatting  where  I  chuck'd  him  down, 
'  Joe  Wilson,  stay  your  hand  so  bold, 
Come  not  a  wolf  into  the  fold ; 
Forbear  to  touch  that  holy  one — 
The  Apostle  Hiram  Higginson.' 


24  THE  BOSS'S  TALE. 

'  Touch  him,'  said  I,  '  for  half  a  pin 
I'd  flay  and  quarter  him  and  skin  ! 
Waal  may  he  look  so  white  and  skeer'd, 
For  of  his  doings  I  have  heerd  ; 
Five  wives  he  hev  already  done, 
And  him — not  half  the  man  for  one  ! ' 


"  And  then  I  stoop'd  and  took  a  peep 
At  what  they'd  studied  at  so  deep, 
And  read,  for  I  can  read  a  bit, 
'The  Book  of  Mormon  ' — what  was  writ 
By  the  first  Saint  of  all  the  lot, 
Mad  Joseph,  him  the  Yankees  shot. 
'What's  the  contents  of  this  yer  book  ?' 
Says  I,  and  fixed  her  with  a  look. 
'  O  Joe,'  she  answered,  <  read  aright, 
It  is  a  book  of  blessed  light — 
Thet  holy  man  expounds  it  clear ; 
Edification  great  is  theer ! ' 


JOE  AND   THE  BISHOP.  25 

Then,  for  my  blood  was  up,  I  took 

One  kick  at  thet  infernal  book, 

And  tho'  the  Apostle  guv  a  cry, 

Into  the  well  I  made  it  fly, 

And  turning  to  the  Apostle  cried, 

'  Tho'  thet  theer  Scriptur'  is  your  guide, 

You'd  best  depart  without  delay, 

Afore  you  sink  in  the  same  way ! 

And  sure  as  fate  you'll  wet  your  skin 

If  you  come  courting  yer  agin  ! ' 


"  At  first  he  stared  and  puff 'd  and  blew, — 

'  Git  out ! '  I  cried,  and  off  he  flew, 

And  not  till  he  was  out  o'  reach 

Shook  his  fat  fist  and  found  his  speech. 

I  turned  to  Cissy.     '  Cicely  Dunn/ 

Ses  I,  '  is  this  a  bit  of  fun 

Or  eernest  ?J     Reckon  'twas  a  sight 

To  see  the  way  she  stood  upright, 


26  THE  BOSS'S  TALE. 

Rolled  her  blue  eyes  up,  tried  to  speak, 
Made  fust  a  giggle,  then  a  squeak, 
And  said  half  crying,  '  I  despise 
Your  wicked  calumnies  and  lies, 
And  what  you  would  insinuate 
Won't  move  me  from  my  blessed  state. 
Now  I  perceive  in  time,  thank  hiven, 
You  are  a  man  to  anger  given, 
Jealous  and  vi'lent.     Go  away ! 
And  when  you  recollect  this  day, 
And  those  bad  words  you've  said  to  me, 
Blush  if  you  kin.     Tehee  !  tehee  ! ' 
And  then  she  sobbed,  and  in  her  cheer 
Fell  crying:  so  I  felt  quite  queer, 
And  stood  like  a  dern'd  fool,  and  star'd 
Watchin'  the  pump  a-going  hard ; 
And  then  at  last,  I  couldn't  stand 
The  sight  no  more,  but  slipt  my  hand 
Sharp  into  hers,  and  said  quite  kind, 
*  Say  no  more,  Cissy — never  mind ; 


JOE  AND  CISS.  27 

I  know  how  queer  you  women's  ways  is — 

Let  the  Apostle  go  to  blazes  ! ' 

Now  thet  was  plain  and  fair.     With  this 

I  would  have  put  my  arm  round  Ciss. 

But  Lord  !  you  should  have  seen  her  face, 

When  I  attempted  to  embrace  ; 

Sprang  to  her  feet  and  gev  a  cry, 

Pier  back  up  like  a  cat's,  her  eye 

All  blazing,  and  cried  fierce  and  clear, 

*  You  villain,  touch  me  if  you  deer ! ' 
And  jest  then  in  the  distance,  fur 
From  danger,  a  voice  echoed  her,-  - 
The  dern'd  Apostle's,  from  some  place 
Where  he  had  hid  his  ugly  face, — 
Crying  out  faint  and  thick  and  clear, 

*  Yes,  villain,  touch  her  if  you  deer  ! ' 


So  riled  I  was,  to  be  so  beat, 

I  could  have  struck  her  to  my  feet. 


28  THE  BOSS'S  TALE. 

I  didn't  tho',  tho'  sore  beset— 
I  never  struck  a  woman  yet. 

"  But  off  I  walked  right  up  the  pass, 
And  found  the  men  among  the  grass, 
And  when  I  came  in  sight  said  flat, 
1  What's  this  yer  game  Cissy  is  at  ? 
She's  thrown  me  off,  and  taken  pity 
On  an  Apostle  from  the  City. 
-  Five  wives  already,  too,  has  he — 
Poor  cussed  things  as  e'er  I  see — 
Does  she  mean  mischief 'or  a  lark?' 
Waal,  all  the  men  at  thet  look'd  dark, 
And  scratch'd  their  heads   and   seem'd   in 

doubt. 

At  last  her  brother  Jim  spoke  out — 
'Joe,  don't  blame  us— by  George,  it's  true, 
We're  chawed  by  this  as  much  as  you  ; 
We've  done  our  best  and  tried  and  tried, 
But  Ciss  is  off  her  head  with  pride. 


JIM  DUNN'S  EXPLANATION.  29 

And  all  her  thoughts,  both  night  and  day, 
Are  with  the  Apostles  fur  away. 
"  O  that  I  were  in  bliss  with  them 
Theer  in  the  new  Jerusalem  ! " 
She  says  ;  and  when  we  laugh  and  sneer, 
Ses  we're  jest  raging  wolves  down  here. 
She's  a  bit  dull  at  home  d'ye  see, 
Allays  liked  heaps  of  company, 
And  now  the  foolish  critter  paints 
A  life  of  larks  among  the  Saints. 
We've  done  our  best,  don't  hev  a  doubt, 
To  keep  the  old  Apostle  out : 
We've  trained  the  dogs  to  seize  and  bite  him, 
We've  got  up  ghosts  at  night  to  fright  him, 
Doctor'd  his  hoss  and  so  upset  him, 
Put  tickle-grass  in  bed  to  fret  him, 
Jalap'd  his  beer  and  snuffed  his  tea  too, 
Gunpowder  in  his  pipe  put  free  too ; 
A  dozen  times  we've  well-nigh  kill'd  him, 
We've  skeer'd  him,  shaken  him,  and  spill'd 
him; 


30  THE  BOSS'S  TALE. 

In  fact,  done  all  we  deer/  said  Jim, 
'  Against  a  powerful  man  like  him  ; 
But  all  in  vain  we've  hed  our  sport ; 
Jest  like  a  cat  that  cant  be  hurt, 
With  nine  good  lives  if  he  hev  one, 
Is  this  same  Hiram  Higginson!'" 


V. 

JOE  ENDS  HIS  STORY.— FIRST  GLIMPSE  OF  UTAH. 

Joe  paused,  for  down  the  mountain's  brow 
His  hastening  horses  trotted  now. 
Into  a  canyon  green  and  bright, 
Thro'  which  a  beck  was  sparkling  bright, 
Quickly  we  wound.     Joe  Wilson  lit 
'—?    His  cutty  pipe,  and  suck'd  at  it 

In  silence  grim  ;  and  when  it  drew, 
Puff  after  puff  of  smoke  he  blew, 
With  blank  eye  fixed  on  vacancy. 
At  last  he  turned  again  to  me, 
And  spoke  with  bitter  indignation 
The  epilogue  of  his  narration. 

"Waal,  stranger,  guess  my  story's  told, 
The  Apostle  beat  and  I  was  bowl'd. 


32  THE  BOSS'S  TALE. 

Reckon  I  might  have  won  if  I 

Had  allays  been  at  hand  to  try; 

But  I  was  busy  out  of  sight, 

And  he  was  theer,  morn,  noon,  and  night, 

Playing  his  cards,  and  waal  it  weer 

For  him  I  never  caught  him  theer. 

To  cut  the  story  short,  I  guess 

He  got  the  Prophet  to  say  *  yes/ 

And  Cissy  without  much  ado 

Gev  her  consent  to  hev  him  too  ; 

And  one  fine  morning  off  they  druv 

To  what  he  called  the  Abode  of  Love — 
1 

A  dern'd  old  place,  it  seems  to  me, 
I 

Jest  like  a  dove-box  on  a  tree, 
| 

Where  every  lonesome  woman-soul 

Sits  shivering  in  her  own  hole, 
And  on  the  outside,  free  to  choose, 
The  old  cock-pigeon  struts  and  coos. 
I've  heard  from  many  a  one  that  Ciss 
Has  found  her  blunder  out  by  this, 


JOE  ENDS  HIS  STORY.  33 

And  she'd  prefer  for  company 
A  brisk  young  chap,  tho'  poor,  like  me, 
Than  the  sixth  part  of  him  she's  won — 
The  holy  Hiram  Higginson. 
I've  got  a  peep  at  her  since  then, 
When  she's  crawl' d  out  of  thet  theer  den, 
But  she's  so  pale  and  thin  and  tame 
I  shouldn't  know  her  for  the  same. 
No  flesh  to  pinch  upon  her  cheek, 
Her  legs  gone  thin,  no  voice  to  speak, 
Dabby  and  crush'd,  and  sad  and  flabby, 
Sucking  a  wretched  squeaking  baby  ; 
And  all  the  fun  and  all  the  light 
Gone  from  her  face,  and  left  it  white. 
Her  cheek  '11  take  a  feeble  flush, 
But  hesn't  blood  enough  to  blush  ; 
Tries  to  seem  modest,  peart  and  sly, 
And  brighten  up  if  I  go  by, 
But  from  the  corner  of  her  eyes 
Peeps  at  me  quietly,  and  sighs. 
D 


34  THE  BOSS'S  TALE. 

Reckon  her  luck  has  been  a  stinger ! 

She'd  bolt  if  I  held  up  my  finger ; 

But  tho'  I'm  rough,  and  wild,  and  free, 

Take  a  Saint's  leavings — no  not  me  ! 

You've  heerd  of  Vampires — them  that  rise 

At  dead  o'  night  with  flaming  e^es, 

And  into  women's  beds  '11  creep 

To  suck  their  blood  when  they're  asleep. 

I  guess  these  Saints  are  jest  the  same, 

Sucking  the  life  out  is  their  game  ; 

And  tho'  it  ain't  in  the  broad  sun 

Or  in  the  open  streets  it's  done, 

There  ain't  a  woman  they  clap  eyes  on 

Their  teeth  don't  touch,  their  touch  don't  pison ; 

Thet's  their  dern'd  way  in  this  yer  spot — 

Grrr  !  git  along,  hoss  !  dern  you,  trot !" 


From  pool  to  pool  the  wild  beck  sped 
Beside  us,  dwindled  to  a  thread. 


A  SUMMER  SCENE.  35 

With  mellow  verdure  fringed  around 
It  sang  along  with  summer  sound  : 
Here  gliding  into  a  green  glade  ; 
Here  darting  from  a  nest  of  shade 
With  sudden  sparkle  and  quick  cry, 
As  glad  again  to  meet  the  sky ; 
Here  whirling  off  with  eager  will 
And  quickening  tread  to  turn  a  mill ; 
Then  stealing  from  the  busy  place 
With  duskier  depths  and  wearier  pace. 
In  the  blue  void  above  the  beck 
Sailed  with  us,  dwindled  to  a  speck, 
The  hen-hawk;  and  from  pools  below 
The  blue-wing'd  heron  oft  rose  slow, 
And  upward  pass'd  with  measured  beat 
Of  wing  to  seek  some  new  retreat. 
Blue  was  the  heaven  and  darkly  bright, 
Suffused  with  throbbing  golden  light, 
And  in  the  burning  Indian  ray 
A  million  insects  hummed  at  play. 


36  THE  BOSS'S  TALE. 


Soon,  by  the  margin  of  the  stream, 
We  passed  a  driver  with  his  team 
Bound  for  the  City ;  then  a  hound 
Afar  off  made  a  dreamy  sound  ; 
And  suddenly  the  sultry  track 
Left  the  green  canyon  at  our  back, 
And  sweeping  round  a  curve,  behold! 
We  came  into  the  yellow  gold 
Of  perfect  sunlight  on  the  plain  ; 
And  Joe,  abruptly  drawing  rein, 
Said  quick  and  sharp,  shading  his  eyes 
With   sunburnt    hand,   "  See,   theer  it 

lies — 
Theer's 


And  even  as  he  cried, 
The  mighty  Valley  we  descried, 
Burning  below  us  in  one  ray 
Of  liquid  light  that  summer  day  ; 


UTAH  AT  LAST!  37 

And  far  away,  'mid  peaceful  gleams 
Of  flocks  and  herds  and  glistering  streams, 
Rose,  fair  as  aught  that  fancy  paints, 
The  wondrous  City  of  the  Saints  I 


O  Saints  that  shine  around  the  heavenly  Seat  f 

What  heaven  is  this  that  opens  at  my  feet  ? 

What  flocks  are  these  that  thro'1  the  golden  gleam 

Stray  on  by  freckled  "fields  and  shining  stream  ? 

What  glittering  roofs  and  white  kiosks  are  these. 

Up-peeping  from  the  shade  of  emerald  trees  ? 

Whose  City  is  this  that  rises  on  the  sight 

Fair  and  fantastic  as  a  city  of  light 

Seen  in  the  sunset  ?     What  is  yonder  sea 

Opening  beyond  the  City  cool  and  free, 

Large,  deep,  and  luminous,  looming  thro*  the  heat, 

And  lying  at  the  darkly  shadowed  feet 

Of  the  Sierras,  which  with  jagged  line 

Burning  to  amber  in  the  light  divine, 

Close  in  the  Valley  of  the  happy  land, 

With  heights  as  barren  as  a  dead  •man's  hand  ? 

O  pilgrim,  halt!     O  wandering  heart,  give  praise! 
Behold  the  City  of  these  Latter  Day  si 
Here  may'st  thou  leave  thy  load  and  be  forgiven, 
And  in  anticipation  taste  of  Heaven! 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SAINTS. 


I. 

AMONG  THE  PASTURES. — SUMMER   EVENING 
DIALOGUE. 

BISHOP  PETE.  BISHOP  Joss.  STRANGER. 

BISHOP  PETE. 

AH,  things  down  here,  as  you  observe,  are  getting 

more  pernicious, 
And  Brigham's  losing  all  his  nerve,  altho'  the 

fix  is  vicious. 
Jest  as  we've  rear'd  a  prosperous  place  and  fill'd 

our  holy  quivers, 
The  Yankee  comes  with  dern'd  long  face  to  give 

us  all  the  shivers  ! 


42  AMONG  THE  PASTURES. 

And  on  his  jaws  a  wicked  grin  prognosticates 

disaster, 
And,  jest  as  sure  as  sin  is  sin,  he  means  to  be 

the  master. 
"  Pack  up  your  traps,"  I  hear  him  cry,  "  for  here 

there's  no  remainin'," 
And  winks  with  his  malicious  eye,  and  progues 

us  out  of  Canaan. 

BISHOP  Joss. 

It  ain't  the  Yankee  that  /  fear,  the  neighbour 

nor  the  stranger — 
No,  no,  it's  closer  home,  it's  here,  that  I  perceive 

the  danger. 
The  wheels  of  State  has  gather'd  rust,  the  helm 

wants  hands  to  guide  it, 
'Tain't  from  without  the  biler  '11  bust,  but  'cause 

of  steam  inside  it ; 
Yet   if  we   went  falootin'   less,    and   made  less 

noise  and  flurry, 


THE  BULWARK  OF  THE  FAITH.        43 

It  isn't  Jonathan,  I  guess,  would  hurt  us  in  a 

hurry. 
But  there's  sedition  east  and  west,  and  secret 

revolution, 
There's  canker  in  the  social  breast,  rot  in  the 

constitution ; 
And  over  half  of  us,  at  least,  are  plunged  in  mad 

vexation, 
Forgetting  how   our   race   increased,   our   very 

creed's  foundation. 
What's   our   religion's    strength   and   force,   its 

substance,  and  its  story  r 

STRANGER. 

Polygamy,  my  friend,  of  course !  the  law  of  love 
and  glory  ! 

BISHOP  PETE. 

Stranger,  I'm  with  you  there,  indeed  : — it's  been 
the  best  of  nusses  ; 


44  AMONG  THE  PASTURES. 

Polygamy  is  to  our  creed  what  meat  and  drink 

to  us  is. 
Destroy  that  notion  any  day,  and-  all  the  rest  is 

brittle, 
And  Mormondom  dies  clean  away  like  one  in 

want  of  vittle. 
It's  meat   and   drink,   it's   life,    it's   power !    to 

heaven  its  breath  doth  win  us  ! 
It  warms  our  vitals  every  hour !  it's  Holy  Ghost 

within  us ! 
Jest  lay  that  notion  on  the  shelf,  and  all  life's 

springs  are  frozen ! 
I've  half-a-dozen  wives  myself,  and  wish  I  had  a 

dozen ! 

BISHOP  Joss. 

If  all  the  Elders  of  the  State  like  you  were  sound 

and  holy, 
P.  Shufflebotham,  guess  our  fate  were  far  less 

melancholy. 


BISHOP  JOSS  DESCRIBETH  ST.  ABE.      45 

You  air  a  man  of  blessed  toil,  far-shining  and 
discerning, 

A  heavenly  lamp  well  trimm'd  with  oil,  upon  the 
altar  burning. 

And  yet  for  every  one  of  us  with  equal  resolu- 
tion, 

There's  twenty  samples  of  the  Cuss,  as  mean  as 
Brother  Clewson. 

STRANGER. 
St.  Abe  ? 

BISHOP  Joss. 

Yes,  him — the  snivelling  sneak — his  very  name 

provokes  me, — 
Altho'  my  temper's  milky-meek,  he   sours   me 

and  he  chokes  me. 
To  see  him  going  up  and  down  with  those  meek 

lips  asunder, 
Jest  like  a  man  about  to  drown,  with  lead  to  sink 

him  under, 


46  AMONG  THE  PASTURES. 

His  grey  hair  on  his  shoulders  shed,  one  leg  than 

t'other  shorter, 
No   end  of  cuteness  in  his  head,  and  him — as 

weak  as  water ! 

BISHOP  PETE. 

And  yet  how  well  I  can  recall  the  time  when 

Abe  was  younger — 
Why  not   a   chap  among  us  all  went  for  the 

notion  stronger. 
When  to  the  mother-country  he  was  sent  to  wake 

the  sinning, 
He  shipp'd  young  lambs  across  the  sea  by  flocks 

— he  was  so  winning  ; 
O  but  he  had  a  lively  style,  describing  saintly 

blisses ! 
He  made  the  spirit  pant  and  smile,  and  seek 

seraphic  kisses ! 
How  the  bright  raptures  of  the  Saint  fresh  lustre 

seemed  to  borrow, 


ST.  ABE'S  WEAKNESS.  47 

While  black  and  awful  he  did  paint  the  one-wived 

sinner's  sorrow ! 
Each  woman  longed  to  be  his  bride,  and  by  his 

side  to  slumber — 
"The  more  the  blesseder!"  he  cried, still  adding 

to  the  number. 

STRANGER. 

How  did  the  gentleman  contrive  to  change  his 
skin  so  quickly  ? 

BISHOP  Joss. 

The  holy  Spirit  couldn't  thrive  because  the  Flesh 

was  sickly! 
Tho'  day  by  day  he  did  increase  his  flock,  his 

soul  was  shallow, 
His  brains  were  only  candle-grease,  and  wasted 

down  like  tallow. 
He  stoop'd  a  mighty  heap  too  much,  and  let  his 

household  rule  him, 


48  AMONG  THE  PASTURES. 

The  weakness  of  the  man  was  such  that  any  face 

could  fool  him. 
Aye  !  made  his  presence  cheap,  no  doubt,  and  so 

contempt  grew  quicker, — 
Not  measuiing  nis  notice  out  in  smallish  drams, 

like  liquor. 

His  house  became  a  troublous  house,  with  mis- 
chief overbrimmin', 
And  he  went  creeping  like  a  mouse  among  the 

cats  of  women. 
Ah,  womenfolk  are  hard  to  rule,  their  tricks  is 

most  surprising, 

It's  only  a  dern'd  spoony  fool  goes  sentimental- 
ising! 
But  give  'em  now  and  then  a  bit  of  notice  and  a 

present, 
And  lor,  they're  just  like  doves,  that  sit  on  one 

green  branch,  all  pleasant ! 

But  Abe's  love  was  a  queer  complaint,  a  sort  of 
tertian  fever, 


BISHOP  PETE  DEFINETH  SAINTLINESS.   49 

Each   case   he   cured   of  thought   the    Saint    a 

thorough- paced  deceiver; 
And  soon  he  found,  he  did  indeed,  with  all  their 

whims  to  nourish,  • 

That   Mormonism   ain't   a   creed   where  fleshly 
I 

follies  flourish. 

BISHOP  PETE. 

Ah,  right  you  air!    A  creed  it  is  demandin'  iron 

mettle ! 
A  will  that  quells,  as  soon  as  riz,  the  biling  of 

the  kettle  ! 
With   wary   eye,   with   manner   deep,    a    spirit 

overbrimming 
Like  to  a  shepherd  'mong  his  sheep,  the  Saint  is 

'mong  his  women ; 
And  unto  him  they  do  uplift  their  eyes  in  awe 

and  wonder ; 
His  notice  is  a  blessed  gift,  his  anger  is  blue 

thunder  : 

E 


50  AMONG  THE  PASTURES. 

No  n'ises  vex  the  holy  place  where  dwell  those 

blessed  parties  ; 
Each  missus  shineth  in  her  place,  and  blithe  and 

meek  her  heart  is  ! 
They  sow,  they  spin,  they  darn,  they  hem,  their 

blessed  babes  they  handle, 
The  Devil  never  comes  to  them,  lit  by  that  holy 

candle  ! 
When    in    their    midst    serenely    walks     their 

Master  and  their  Mentor, 
They're  hush'd,  as  when  the  Prophet  stalks  down 

holy  church's  centre ! 
They  touch  his  robe,  they  do  not  move,  those 

blessed  wives  and  mothers, 
And,  when  on  one  he  shineth  love,  no  envy  fills 

the  others ; 
They  know  his  perfect  saintliness,  and  honour 

his  affection — 
And,  if  they  did  object,  I  guess  he'd  settle  that 

objection  ! 


ST.  ABE'S  HOUSEHOLD  DESCRIBED.    5I 

BISHOP  Joss. 

It  ain't  a  passionate  flat  like  Abe  can  manage 

things  in  your  way  ! 
They  teased  that  most  etarnal  babe,  till  things 

were  in  a  poor  way. 
I  used  to  watch  his  thorny  bed,  and  bust  my 

sides  with  laughter. 
Once  give  a  female  hoss  her  head  you'll  never 

stop  her  after. 
It's  one  thing  getting  seal'd,  and  he  was  mighty 

fond  of  Sealing, 
He'd  all  the  human  heat,  d'ye  see,  without  the 

saintly  feeling. 
His  were  the  wildest  set  of  gals  that  ever  drove 

man  silly, 
Each  full  of  freaks  and  fal-de-lals,  as  frisky  as  a 

filly. 
One  pull'd  this  way,  and  t'other  that,  and  made 

his  life  a  mockery, 


52  AMONG  THE  PASTURES. 

They'd  all    the   feelings  of   a    cat   scampaging 

'mong  the  crockery. 
I  saw  Abe  growing  pale  and  thin,  and  well  I 

knew  what  ail'd  him — 
The  skunk  went  stealing  out  and  in,  and  all  his 

spirit  failed  him  ; 
And  tho'   the  tanning-yard   paid  well,   and  he 

was  money-making, 
His   saintly  home  was  hot  as   Hell,   and,    ah ! 

how  he  was  baking  ! 
Why,  now  and  then  at  evening-time,  when  his 

day's  work  was  over, 
Up  this  here  hill  he  used  to  climb  and  squat 

among  the  clover, 
And  with  his  fishy  eye  he'd  glare  across   the 

Rocky  Mountains, 
And  wish  he  was   away  up   there,  among  the 

heavenly  fountains ! 
I  had  an  aunt,  Tabitha  Brooks,  a  virgin  under 

fifty, 


TABITHA    WOOETH  ABRAHAM.          53 

She  warn't  so  much  for  pretty  looks,  but  she 

was  wise  and  thrifty  ; 
She'd   seen   the  vanities  of  life,  was   good   at 

'counts  and  brewin' — 
Thinks  I,  "  Here's  just  the  sort  of  Wife  to  save 

poor  Abe  from  ruin." 
So,  after  fooling   many  a  week,   and    showing 

him  she  loved  him, 
And    seeing    he   was   shy   to    speak,   whatever 

feelings  moved  him, 
At  last  I  took  her  by  the  hand,  and  led  her  to 

him  straightway, 
One  day  when  we  could  see  him  stand  jest  close 

unto  the  gateway. 
My  words  were  to  the  p'int  and  brief:  says  I, 

"  My  brother  Clewson, 
There'll  be  an  end  to  all  your  grief,  if  you've  got 

resolution. 

Where  shall  you  find  a  house  that  thrives  with- 
out a  head  that's  ruling  ? 


54  AMONG  THE  PASTURES. 

Here   is   the  paragon    of  wives    to  teach  those 

others  schooling  ! 
She'll  be  to  you  not  only  wife,  but  careful  as  a 

mother — 
A  little  property  for  life  is  hers ;  you'll  share  it, 

brother. 
I've  seen  the  question  morn  and  eve  within  your 

eyes  unspoken, 
You're  slow  and  nervous  I  perceive,  but  now — the 

ice  is  broken. 
Here  is  a  guardian  and  a  guide  to  bless  a  man 

and  grace  him  ;  " 
And  then  I  to  Tabitha  cried,  "  Go  in,  old  gal — 

embrace  him  !  " 

STRANGER. 

Why,  that  was  acting  fresh  and  fair ; — but  Abe, 
was  he  as  hearty  ? 

BISHOP  Joss. 

We  ...  11 !  Abe  was  never  anywhere  against  a 
female  party ! 


HOW  ST.  ABE  WAS  SEALED  TO  TABITHA.    55 

At  first  he  seemed  about  to  run,  and  then  we 

might  have  missed  him  ; 
But  Tabby  was  a  tender  one,  she  collar'd  him 

and  kissed  him. 
And  round  his  neck  she  blushing  hung,  part 

holding,  part  caressing, 
And  murmur' d,  with  a  faltering  tongue,  "O,  Abe, 

I'll  be  a  blessing." 
And  home   they  walk'd  one   morning,   he  just 

reaching  to  her  shoulders, 
And   sneaking   at  her  skirt,   while  she   stared 

straight  at  all  beholders. 
Swinging  her  bonnet  by  the  strings,  and  setting 

her  lips  tighter, 
In  at  his  door  the  old  gal  springs,  her  grim  eyes 

growing  brighter ; 
And,   Lord !  there  was   the  devil  to  pay,  and 

lightning  and  blue  thunder, 
For  she  was  going  to  have  her  way,  and  hold 

the  vixens  under ; 


56  AMONG  THE  PASTURES. 

They  would  have  torn  old  Abe   to   bits,  they 

were  so  anger-bitten, 
But  Tabby  saved  him  from  their  fits,  as  a  cat 

saves  her  kitten. 

STRANGER. 

It    seems    your    patriarchal    life    has    got    its 

botherations, 
And  leads  to  much  domestic  strife  and  infinite 

vexations  ! 
But  when  the  ladies  couldn't  lodge  in  peace  one 

house-roof  under, 
I  thought  that  'twas  the  saintly  dodge  to  give 

them  homes  asunder  ? 

BISHOP  Joss. 

And  you  thought  right ;  it  is  a  plan  by  many 

here  affected — 
Never  by  me — I  ain't  the  man — I'll  have  my  will 

respected. 


BISHOP  JOSS'S  OWN  DOMESTIC  SYSTEM.  57 

If  all  the  women  of  my  house  can't  fondly  pull 

together, 
And  each  as  meek  as  any  mouse,  look  out  for 

stormy  weather ! — 
No,  no,  I  don't  approve  at  all  of  humouring  my 

women, 
And  building  lots  of  boxes  small  for  each  one 

to  grow  grim  in. 
I  teach  them  jealousy's  a  sin,  and  solitude's  just 

bearish, 
They  nuss  each  other  lying-in,  each  other's  babes 

they  cherish ; 

It  is  a  family  jubilee,  and  not  a  selfish  plea- 
sure, 
Whenever    one  presents   to   me  another  infant 

treasure  ! 
All  ekal,   all    respected,   each  with   tokens   of 

affection, 
They  dwell  together,  soft  of  speech,  beneath  their 

lord's  protection ; 


58  AMONG  THE  PASTURES. 

And  if  by  any  chance  I  mark  a  spark  of  shindy 

raising, 
I  set  my  heel  upon  that  spark, — before  the  house 

gets  blazing ! 
Now  that's  what  Clewson  should  have  done,  but 

couldn't,  thro*  his  folly, 
For  even  when  Tabby's  help  was  won,  he  wasn't 

much  more  jolly. 
Altho'  she  stopt  the  household  fuss,  and  husht 

the  awful  riot, 
The  old  contrairy  stupid  Cuss  could  not  enj'y 

the  quiet. 
His  house  was  peaceful  as  a  church,  all  solemn, 

still,  and  saintly ; 
And  yet  he'd  tremble  at  the   porch,  and  look 

about  him  faintly ; 
And  tho'  the  place  was  all  his  own,  with  hat  in 

hand  he'd  enter, 
Like    one   thro'   public   buildings   shown,    soft 

treading  down  the  centre. 


HOW  ANNE  JONES  CAME  TO  UTAH.     59 

Still,   things   were   better  than  before,   though 

somewhat  trouble-laden, 
When  one  fine  day  unto  his  door  there  came  a 

Yankee  maiden. 
"Is  Brother  Clewson  in  r"  she  says;  and  when 

she  saw  and  knew  him, 
The  stranger  gal  to  his  amaze  scream'd  out  and 

clung  unto  him. 
Then  in  a  voice  all  thick  and  wild,  exclaim'd  that 

gal  unlucky, 
"  O  Sir,  I'm   Jason   Jones's  child — he's   dead — 

stabb'd  in  Kentucky ! 
And   father's    gone,    and    O    I've   come   to  you 

across  the  mountains." 
And  then  the  little  one  was  dumb,  and  Abe's 

eyes  gushed  like  fountains.  .  .  . 
He  took  that  gal  into  his  place,  and  kept  her  as 

his  daughter — 
Ah,  mischief  to  her  wheedling  face  and  the  bad 

wind  that  brought  her1 


60  AMONG  THE  PASTURES. 

BISHOP  PETE. 

I  knew  that  Jones ; — used  to  faloot  about  Emanci- 
pation— 
It  made  your  very  toe-nails  shoot  to  hear  his 

declamation. 
And  when   he'd   made   all   bosoms   swell  with 

wonder  at  his  vigour, 
He'd  get  so  drunk  he  couldn't  tell  a  white  man 

from  a  nigger ! 
Was  six  foot  high,  thin,  grim,  and  pale, — his 

troubles  can't  be  spoken — 
Tarred,  feathered,  ridden  on  a  rail,  left  beaten, 

bruised,  and  broken ; 
But  nothing  made  his  tongue  keep  still,  or  stopt 

his  games  improper, 
Till,  after  many  an  awkward  spill,  he  came  the 

final  cropper. 

BISHOP.  Joss. 

.  .  .  That  gal  was  fourteen  years  of  age,  and  sly 
with  all  her  meekness  ; 


JASON  JONES'S  LEG  A  CY.  6 1 

It  put  the  fam'ly  in  a  rage,  for  well  they  knew 

Abe's  weakness. 
But  Abe  (a  cuss,  as  I  have  said,  that  any  fool 

might  sit  on) 
Was  stubborn  as  an  ass's  head,  when  once  he 

took  the  fit  on  ! 
And,  once  he  fixed  the  gal  to  take,  in  spite  of 

their  vexation, 
Not  all  the  rows  on  earth  would  break  his  firm 

determination. 
He  took  the  naggings  as  they  came,  he  bowed 

his  head  quite  quiet, 
Siill  mild  he  was  and  sad  and  tame,  and  ate  the 

peppery  diet ; 
But  tho5  he  seemed  so  crush'd  to  be,  when  this 

or  that  one  blew  up, 
He  stuck  to  Jones's  Legacy  and  school'd  her  till 

she  grew  up. 
Well !  there  !  the  thing  was  said  and  done,  and 

so  far  who  could  blame  him  ? 


62  AMONG  THE  PASTURES. 

But  O  he  was  a  crafty  one,  and  sorrow  couldn't 

shame  him  ! 
That  gal  grew  up,  and  at  eighteen  was  prettier 

far  and  neater — 
There   were   not   many  to  be  seen  about  these 

parts  to  beat  her  ; 
Peart,  brisk,  bright-eyed,  all  trim  and  tight,  like 

kittens  fond  of  playing, 
A  most  uncommon  pleasant  sight  at  pic-nic  or 

at  praying. 
Then  it  became,  as  you'll  infer,  a  simple  public 

duty, 
To  cherish  and  look  after  her,  considering  her 

beauty ; 
And  several  Saints  most  great  and  blest  now 

offer' d  their  protection, 
And  I  myself  among  the  rest  felt  something  of 

affection. 
But  O  the  selfishness  of  Abe,  all  things  it  beats 

and  passes  ! 


SISTER  ANNE  HATH  MANY  WOOERS.  63 

As   greedy  as  a   two-year  babe  a-grasping  at 

molasses ! 
When  once  those  Shepherds  of  the  flock  began 

to  smile  and  beckon, 
He  screamed  like  any  fighting  cock,  and  raised 

his  comb,  I  reckon  ! 
First  one  was   floor'd,   then   number   two,   she 

wouldn't  look  at  any  ; 
Then    my    turn    came,    although    I    knew   the 

maiden's  faults  were  many. 
"  My  brother  Abe/'  says  I,  "  I  come  untoe  your 

house  at  present 
To  offer  sister  Anne  a  home  which  she  will  find 

most  pleasant. 
You  know  I  am  a  saintly  man,  and  all  my  ways 

are  lawful " — 
And  in  a  minute  he  began  abusing   me  most 

awful. 
"  Begone,"    he   said,   "  you're   like    the   rest, — 

wolves,  wolves  with  greedy  clutches  ! 


e>4  AMONG  THE  PASTURES. 

Poor  little  lamb ;  but  in  my  breast  I'll  shield  her 

from  your  touches  !  " 
"  Come,  come/'  says  I,  "  a  gal  can't  stay  a  child 

like  that  for  ever, 
You'll  hev  to  seal  the  gal  some  day ; "  but  Abe 

cried  fiercely,  "  Never  !  " 
Says  I,  "  Perhaps  it's  in  your  view  yourself  this 

lamb  to  gather  r  " 
And  "If  it  is,  what's  that  to  you?"  he  cried; 

"  but  I'm  her  father  ! 
You  get  along,  I  know  your  line,  it's  crushing, 

bullying,  wearing, 
You'll   never  seal  a  child  of  mine,  so  go,  and 

don't  stand  staring !  " 
This  was  the  man  once  mild  in  phiz   as   any 

farthing  candle — 
A  hedgehog   now,  his  quills   all  riz,  whom  no 

one  dared  to  handle ! 
But  O  I  little  guessed  his  deal,  nor  tried  to 

circumvent  it, 


SISTER  ANNE  IS  SEALED  UNTO  ST.  ABE.  65 

I  never  thought  he'd  dare  to  seal  another ;  but 

he  meant  it ! 
Yes,  managed  Brigham  on  the  sly,  for  fear  his 

plans  miscarried, 
And  long  before  we'd  time  to  cry,  the  two  were 

sealed  and  married. 

BISHOP  PETE. 

Well,  you've  your  consolation  now — he's  pun- 
ished clean,  I'm  thinking, 

He's  ten  times  deeper  in  the  slough,  up  to  his 
neck  and  sinking. 

There's  vinegar  in  Abe's  pale  face  enough  to 
sour  a  barrel, 

Goes  crawling  up  and  down  the  place,  neglect- 
ing his  apparel, 

Seems  to  have  lost  all  heart  and  soul,  has  fits  of 
absence  shocking — 

His  home  is  like  a  rabbit's  hole  when  weasels 
come  a»knocking. 

F 


66  AMONG  THE  PASTURES. 

And  now  and  then,  to  put  it  plain,  while  falling 

daily  sicker, 
I  think  he  tries  to  float  his  pain  by  copious  goes 

of  liquor. 

BISHOP  Joss. 

Yes,   that's   the  end  of  selfishness,  it  leads   to 

long  vexation — 
No  man  can  pity  Abe,  I  guess,  who  knows  his 

situation  ; 
And,  Stranger,  if  this  man  you  meet,  don't  take 

him  for  a  sample, 
Although  he  speaks  you  fair  and  sweet,  he's  set 

a  vile  example. 
Because  you  see  him  ill  at  ease,  at  home,  and 

never  hearty, 
Don't  think   these  air  the  tokens,  please,  of  a 

real  saintly  party ! 
No,  he's  a  failure,  he's  a  sham,  a  scandal  to  our 

nation, 


TWO  MODEL  SAINTS.  67 

Not  fit  to  lead  a  single  lamb,  unworthy  of  his 

station ; 
No !  if  you  want  a  Saint  to  see,  who  rules  lambs 

when  he's  got  'em, 
Just  cock  your  weather-eye  at   me,  or  Brother 

Shufflebotham. 
We  don't  go  croaking  east  and  west,  afraid  of 

women's  faces, 
We  bless  and  we  air  truly  blest  in  our  domestic 

places  ; 
We  air  religious,  holy  men,  happy  our  folds  to 

gather, 

Each  is  a  loyal  citizen,  also  a  husband — rather. 
But   now   with   talk  you're   dry    and   hot,    and 

weary  with  your  ride  here, 
Jest  come  and  see  my  fam'ly  lot, — they're  waiting 

tea  inside  here. 


n. 

WITHIN  THE  CITY.— SAINT  ABE  AND  THE  SEVEN, 

Sister  Tabitha,  thirty  odd, 

Rising  up  with  a  stare  and  a  nod  ; 

Sister  Amelia,  sleepy  and  mild, 

Freckled,  Dudu-ish,  suckling  a  child ; 

Sister  Fanny,  pert  and  keen, 

Sister  Emily,  solemn  and  lean, 

Sister  Mary,  given  to  tears, 

Sister  Sarah,  with  wool  in  her  ears  ; — 

All  appearing  like  tapers  wan 

In  the  mellow  sunlight  of  Sister  Anne. 

With  a  tremulous  wave  of  his  hand,  the  Saint 
Introduces  the  household  quaint, 


FADED  FLOWERS.  69 

And  sinks  on  a  chair  and  looks  around, 
As  the  dresses  rustle  with  snakish  sound, 
As  curtsies  are  bobb'd,  and  eyes  cast  down 
Some  with  a  simper,  some  with  a  frown, 
And  Sister  Anne,  with  a  fluttering  breast, 
Stands  trembling  and  peeping  behind  the  rest. 


Every  face  but  one  has  been 
Pretty,  perchance,  at  the  age  of  eighteen, 
J^ert  and  pretty,  and  plump  and  bright ; 
But  now  their  fairness  is  faded  quite, 
And  every  feature  is  fashion'd  here 
To  a  flabby  smile,  or  a  snappish  sneer. 
Before  the  stranger  they  each  assume 
A  false  fine  flutter  and  feeble  bloom, 

\nd  a  little  colour  comes  into  the  cheek 

When  the  eyes  meet  mine,  as  I  sit  and  speak ; 

But  there  they  sit  and  look  at  me, 

\lmost  withering  visibly, 


70  SAINT  ABE  AND  THE  SEVEN. 

And  languidly  tremble  and  try  to  blow — 
Six  pale  roses  all  in  a  row ! 


Six  ?  ah,  yes  ;  but  at  hand  sits  one, 

The  seventh,  still  full  of  the  light  of  the  sun. 

Though  her  colour  terribly  comes  and  goes, 

Now  white  as  a  lily,  now  red  as  a  rose, 

So  sweet  she  is,  and  so  full  of  light, 

That  the  rose  seems  soft,  and  the  lily  bright. 

Her  large  blue  eyes,  with  a  tender  care, 

Steal  to  her  husband  unaware, 

And  whenever  he  feels  them  he  flushes  red, 

And  the  trembling  hand  goes  up  to  his  head  I 

Around  those  dove-like  eyes  appears 

A  redness  as  of  recent  tears. 

Alone  she  sits  in  her  youth's  fresh  bloom 

In  a  dark  corner  of  the  room, 

And  folds  her  hands,  and  does  not  stir, 

And  the  others  scarcely  look  at  her, 


THE  STRANGER  ESSAYETH  SMALL  TALK. 

But  crowding  together,  as  if  by  plan, 
Draw  further  and  further  from  Sister  Anne. 

I  try  to  rattle  along  in  chat, 

Talking  freely  of  this  and  that — 

The  crops,  the  weather,  the  mother-land, 

Talk  a  baby  could  understand ; 

And  the  faded  roses,  faint  and  meek, 

Open  their  languid  lips  to  speak, 

But  in  various  sharps  and  flats,  all  low, 

Give  a  lazy  "  yes  "  or  a  sleepy  ft  no." 

Yet  now  and  then  Tabitha  speaks, 

Snapping  her  answer  with  yellow  cheeks, 

And  fixing  the  Saint  who  is  sitting  by 

With  the  fish-like  glare  of  her  glittering  eye, 

Whenever  the  looks  of  the  weary  man 

Stray  to  the  corner  of  Sister  Anne. 

Like  a  fountain  in  a  shady  place 

Is  the  gleam  of  the  sadly  shining  face— 


72  SAINT  ABE  AND  THE  SEVEN. 

A  fresh  spring  whither  the  soul  might  turn, 
When   the   road   is  rough,  and   the   hot   sands 

burn  ; 

Like  a  fount,  or  a  bird,  or  a  blooming  tree, 
To  a  weary  spirit  is  such  as  she  ! 
And  Brother  Abe,  from  his  easy  chair, 
Looks  thither  by  stealth  with  an  achtng  care, 
And   in    spite   of  the   dragons  that   guard   tho 

brink 

Would  stoop  to  the  edge  of  the  fount,  I  think, 
And  drink  !  and  drink ! 

"  Drink  ?     Stuff  and  fiddlesticks,"  you  cry, 

Matron  reader  with  flashing  eye  : 

"  Isn't  the  thing  completely  his, 

His  w  ife,  his  mistress,  whatever  you  please  ? 

Look  at  her!  Dragons  and  fountains!   Absurd!" 

Madam,  I  bow  to  every  word  ; 

But  truth  is  truth,  and  cannot  fail, 

And  this  is  quite  a  veracious  tale. 


LOVING  ONE'S  OWN  WIFE.  73 

More  like  a  couple  of  lovers  shy, 

Who  flush  and  flutter  when  folk  are  by, 

Were  man  and  wife,  or  (in  another 

And  holier  parlance)  sister  and  brother. 

As  a  man  of  the  world  I  noticed  it, 

And  it  made  me  speculate  a  bit, 

For  the  situation  was  to  my  mind 

A  phenomenon  of  a  curious  kind— 

A  person  in  love  with  his  wife,  'twas  clear, 

But  afraid,  when  another  soul  was  near, 

Of  showing  his  feelings  in  any  way 

Because — there  would  be  the  Devil  to  pay ! 

The  Saint  has  been  a  handsome  fellow, 
Clear-eyed,  fresh-skinn'd,  if  a  trifle  yellow, 
And  his  face  though  somewhat  soft  and  plain 
Ends  in  a  towering  mass  of  brain. 

His  locks,  though  still  an  abundant  crop, 
Are  thinning  a  little  at  the  top, 


74  SAINT  ABE  AND  THE  SEVEN. 

But  you  only  notice  here  and  there 
The  straggling  gleam  of  a  silver  hair. 
A  man  by  nature  rolled  round  and  short, 
Meant  for  the  Merry  Andrew's  sport, 
But  sober'd  down  by  the  wear  and  tear 
Of  business  troubles  and  household  care : 
Quiet,  reticent,  gentle,  kind, 
Of  amorous  heart  and  extensive  mind, 
A  Saint  devoid  of  saintly  sham, 
Is  little  Brother  Abraham. 


Brigham's  right  hand  he  used  to  be — 

Mild  though  he  seems,  and  simple,  and  free  ; 

Sound  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  and  great 

In  planning  potent  affairs  of  state ; 

Not  bright,  nor  bumptious,  you  must  know, 

Too  retiring  for  popular  show, 

But  known  to  conceive  on  a  startling  scale 

Gigantic  plans  that  never  fail ; 


THE  SAINT  IN  PRIVATE  LIFE.          75 

To  hold  with  a  certain  secret  sense 

The  Prophet  under  his  influence, 

To  be,  I  am  led  to  understand, 

The  Brain,  while  the  Prophet  is  the  Hand, 

And  to  see  his  intellectual  way 

Thro'  moral  dilemmas  of  every  day, 

By  which  the  wisest  are  led  astray. 


Here's  the  Philosopher  ! — here  he  sits, 
Here,  with  his  vaguely  wandering  wits, 
Among  the  dragons,  as  I  have  said, 
Smiling,  and  holding  his  hand  to  his  head. 
What  mighty  thoughts  are  gathering  now 
Behind  that  marble  mass  of  brow  r 
What  daring  schemes  of  polity 
To  set  the  popular  conscience  free, 
And  bless  humanity,  plannethhe  ? 
His  talk  is  idle,  a  surface-gleam, 
The  ripple  on  the  rest  of  the  stream, 


76  SAINT  ABE  AND  THE  SEVEN. 

But  his   thoughts — ah,  his  thoughts — where  do 

they  fly, 

While  the  wretched  roses  under  his  eye 
Flutter  and  peep  ?  and  in  what  doth  his  plan 
Turn  to  the  counsel  of  Sister  Anne  ? 
For  his  eyes  give  ever  a  questioning  look, 
And  the  little  one  in  her  quiet  nook 
Flashes  an  answer,  and  back  again 
The  question  runs  to  the  Brother's  brain, 
And  the  lights  of  speculation  flit 
Over  his  face  and  trouble  it. 

Follow  his  eyes  once  more,  and  scan 
The  fair  young  features  of  Sister  Anne  : 
Frank  and  innocent,  and  in  sooth 
Full  of  the  first  fair  flush  of  youth. 
Quite  a  child — nineteen  years  old  ; 
Not  gushing,  and  self-possessed,  and  bold, 
Like  our  Yankee  women  at  nineteen, 
But  low  of  voice,  and  mild  of  mien — 


SISTER  ANNE.  77 

More  like  the  fresh  young  fruit  you  see 
In  the  mother- laud  across  the  sea — 
More  like  that  rosiest  flower  on  earth, 
A  blooming  maiden  of  English  birth, 
Such  as  we  find  them  yet  awhile 
Scatter'd  about  the  homely  Isle, 
Not  yet  entirely  eaten  away 
By  the  canker-novel  of  the  day, 
Or  curling  up  and  losing  their  scent 
In  a  poisonous  dew  from  the  Continent. 

There  she  sits,  in  her  quiet  nook, 

Still  bright  tho'  sadden'd  ;  and  while  I  look, 

My  heart  is  filled  and  my  eyes  are  dim, 

And  I  hate  the  Saint  when  I  turn  to  him  ! 

Ogre  !  Blue  Beard  !  Oily  and  sly ! 

His  meekness  a  cheat,  his  quiet  a  lie  ! 

A  roaring  lion  he'll  walk  the  house 

Tho'  now  he  crouches  like  any  mouse  ! 

Had  not  he  pluck'd  enough  and  to  spare 

Of  roses  like  these  set  fading  there, 


78  SAINT  ABE  AND  THE  SEVEN. 

But  he  must  seek  to  cajole  and  kiss 

Another  yet,  and  a  child  like  this  ? 

A  maid  on  the  stalk,  just  panting  to  prove 

The  honest  joy  of  a  virgin  love  ; 

A  girl,  a  baby,  an  innocent  child, 

To  be  caught  by  the  first  man's  face  that  smiled ! 

Scarce  able  the  difference  to  fix 

Of  polygamy  and  politics  ! 

Led  to  the  altar  like  a  lamb, 

And  sacrificed  to  the  great  god  Sham  ! 

Deluded,  martyr'd,  given  to  woe, 

Last  of  seven  who  have  perish'd  so  ; 

For  who  can  say  but  the  flowers  I  see 

Were  once  as  rosy  and  ripe  as  she  ? 


Already  the  household  worm  has  begun 
To  feed  on  the  cheeks  of  the  little  one  ; 
Already  her  spirit,  fever- fraught, 
Droops  to  the  weight  of  its  own  thought ; 


BOTTLED  THUNDER.  79 

Already  she  saddens  and  sinks  and  sighs, 
Watched  by  the  jealous  dragonish  eyes. 
Even  Amelia,  sleepy  and  wan, 
Sharpens  her  orbs  as  she  looks  at  Anne  ; 
While  Sister  Tabby,  when  she  can  spare 
Her  gaze  from  the  Saint  in  his  easy-chair, 
Fixes  her  with  a  gorgon  glare. 

All  is  still  and  calm  and  polite, 

The  Sisters  bolster  themselves  upright, 

And  try  to  smile,  but  the  atmosphere 

Is  charged  with  thunder  and  lightning  here. 

Heavy  it  seems,  and  close  and  warm, 

Like  the  air  before  a  summer  storm ; 

And  at  times, — as  in  that  drowsy  dream 

Preluding  thunder,  all  sounds  will  seem 

Distinct  and  ominously  clear, 

And  the  far-off  cocks  seem  crowing  near  ; — 

Ev'n  so  in  the  pauses  of  talk,  each  breast 

Is  strangely  conscious  of  the  rest, 


8o  SAINT  ABE  AND  THE  SEVEN. 

And  the  tick  of  the  watch  of  Abe  the  Saint 
Breaks  on  the  air,  distinct  though  faint, 
Like  the  ticking  of  his  heart ! 

I  rise 

To  depart,  still  glancing  with  piteous  eyes 
On  Sister  Anne  ;  and  I  find  her  face 
Turn'd  questioning  still  to  the  same  old  place- 
The  face  of  the  Saint.     I  stand  and  bow, 
Curtsies  again  are  bobbing  now, 
Dresses  rustling.  .  .  I  know  no  more 
Till  the  Saint  has  led  me  to  the  door, 
And  I  find  myself  in  a  day-dream  dim, 
Just  after  shaking  hands  with  him, 
Standing  and  watching  him  sad  and  slow 
Into  the  dainty  dwelling  go, 
With  a  heavy  sigh,  and  his  hand  to  his  head. 

.  .  .  Hark,  distant  thunder! — 'tis  as  I  said  : 
The  air  was  far  too  close ; — at  length 
The  Storm  is  breaking  in  all  its  strength. 


m. 

PROMENADE— MAIN   STREET,   UTAH. 

THE  STRANGER. 

Along  the  streets  they're  thronging,  walking, 
Clad  gaily  in  their  best  and  talking, 

Women  and  children,  quite  a  crowd ; 
The  bright  sun  overhead  is  blazing, 
The  people  sweat,  the  dust  they're  raising 

Arises  like  a  golden  cloud. 
Still  out  of  every  door  they  scatter, 
Laughing  and  light.     Pray  what's  the  matter, 

That  such  a  flock  of  folks  I  see  r 
G 


8a  MAIN  STREET,  UTAH. 

A  LOUNGER. 

They're  off  to  hear  the  Prophet  patter, 
This  yer's  a  day  of  jubilee. 

VOICES. 

Come  along,  we're  late  I  reckon.  .  . 
There's  our  Matt,  I  see  him  beckon.  .  . 
How  d'ye  do,  marm  ?  glad  to  meet  you.  .  • 
Silence,  Hiram,  or  I'll  beat  you.  .  . 
Emm,  there's  brother  Jones  a-looking.  .  . 
Here's  warm  weather,  how  I'm  cooking ! 

STRANGER. 

Afar  the  hills  arise  with  cone  and  column 
Into  a  sky  of  brass  serene  and  solemn  ; 
And  underneath  their  shadow  in  one  haze 
Of  limpid  heat  the  great  salt  waters  blaze, 
While  faint  and  filmy  through  the  sultry  veil 
The  purple  islands  on  their  bosom  sail 


BISHOPS  GREETING.  83 

Like  floating  clouds  of  dark  fantastic  air. 

How  strangely  sounds  (while  'mid  the  Indian 

glare 

Moves  the  gay  crowd  of  people  old  and  young) 
The  bird-like  chirp  of  the  old  Saxon  tongue  ! 
The  women  seem  half  weary  and  half  gay, 
Their  eyes  droop  in  a  melancholy  way, — 
I  have  not  seen  a  merry  face  to-day. 

A  BISHOP. 

(  # 

Thet's  a  smart  hoss  you're  riding,  brother ! 
How  are  things  looking,  down  with  you  ? 

SECOND  BISHOP. 

Not  over  bright  with  one  nor  'tother, 

Taters  are  bad,  tomatoes  blue. 
You've  heer'd  of  Brother  Simpson's  losses  ? — 

Buried  his  wife  and  spiled  his  hay. 
And  the  three  best  of  Hornby's  hosses 

Some  Injin  cuss  has  stol'n  away. 


84  MAIN  STREET,   UTAH. 

VOICES. 

Zoe,  jest  fix  up  my  gown.  .  . 
There's  my  hair  a-coming  down.  .  . 
Drat  the  babby,  he's  so  crusty — 
It's  the  heat  as  makes  him  thusty.  .  . 
Come  along,  Fm  almost  sinking.  .  . 
There's  a  stranger,  and  he's  winking. 

STRANGER. 

That  was  a  fine  girl  with  the  grey-hair'd  lady, 

« 

How   shining   were    her    eyes,   how    true    and 

steady, 

Not  drooping  down  in  guilty  Mormon  fashion, 
But  shooting  at  the  soul  their  power  and  passion. 
That's  a  big  fellow,  six  foot  two,  not  under, 
But  how  he  struts,  and  looks  as  black  as  thunder, 
Half  glancing  round  at  his  poor  sheep  to  scare 

'em- 
Six,  seven,  eight,  nine, — O  Abraham,   what    a 

harem ! 


COQUETTING   WITH  THE  ENEMY.       85 

All  berry  brown,  but  looking  scared  as  may  be, 
And  each  one  but  the  oldest  with  a  baby. 

A  GIRL. 
Phcebe ! 

ANOTHER. 
Yes,  Grace ! 

FIRST  GIRL. 

Don't  seem  to  notice,  dear, 
That  Yankee  from  the  camp  again  is  here, 
Making  such  eyes,  and  following  on  the  sly, 
And  coughing  now  and  then  to  show  he's  nigh 

SECOND  GIRL. 

Who's  that  along  with  him — the  little  scamp 
Shaking  his  hair  and  nodding  writh  a  smile  ? 

FIRST  GIRL. 

Guess  he's  some  new  one  just  come  down  to 
camp. 


86  MAIN  STREET,   UTAH. 

SECOND  GIRL. 
Isn't  he  handsome  ? 

FIRST  GIRL. 

No  ;  the  first's  my  style  ! 

STRANGER. 

If  my  good  friends,  the  Saints,  could  get  their 

will, 

These  Yankee  officers  would  fare  but  ill ; 
Wherever  they  approach  the  folk  retire, 
As  if  from  veritable  coals  of  fire  ; 
With  distant  bow,  set  lips,  and  half-hid  frown, 
The  Bishops  pass  them  in  the  blessed  town  ; 
The  women  come  behind  like  trembling  sheep, 
Some  freeze  to  ice,  some  blush  and  steal  a  peep. 
And  often,  as  a  band  of  maidens  gay 
Comes  up,  each  maid  ceases  to  talk  and  play, 
Proops  down  her  eyes,  and  does  not  look  their 

way; 


ST.  ABE  PASSETH.  87 

But  after  passing  where  the  youngsters  pine, 
All  giggle  as  at  one  concerted  sign, 
And  tripping  on  with  half-hush'd  merry  cries, 
Look  boldly  back  with  laughter  in  their  eyes  ! 

VOICES. 

Here  we  are,  .  .  how  folk  are  pushing !  . . 
Mind  the  babby  in  the  crushing.  .  . 
Pheemy !  .  .  Yes,  John !  .  .  Don't  go  staring 
At  that  Yankee — it's  past  bearing. 
Draw  your  veil  down  while  he  passes, 
Reckon  you're  as  bold  as  brass  is. 

ABE  CLEWSON. 

[Passing  with  his  hand  to  his  head,  attended  by  his 
WivesJ] 

Head  in  a  whirl,  and  heart  in  a  flutter. 
Guess  I  don't  know  the  half  that  I  utter. 


88  MAIN  STREET,   UTAH. 

Too  much  of  this  life  is  beginning  to  try  me, 
I'm  like  a  dern'd  miller  the  grind  always  nigh 

me; 

Praying  don't  sooth  me  nor  comfort  me  any, 
My  house    is   too   full   and   my  blessings    too 

many — 
The  ways  o'  the  wilderness  puzzle  me  greatly. 

SISTER  TABITHA. 

Do  walk  like   a   Christian,    and   keep  kind  o* 

stately ! 
And  jest  keep  an  eye  on  those  persons  behind 

you, 
You  call  'em  your  Wives,  but  they  tease  you  and 

blind  you ; 
Sister  Anne's  a  disgrace,  tho'  you  think  her  a 

martyr, 
And  she's  tuck'd  up  her  petticoat  nigh  to  her 

garter. 


A   GROUP  OF  EMIGRANTS.  89 

STRANGER. 

What   group   is   this,  begrim'd  with   dust   and 

heat, 

Staring  like  strangers  in  the  open  street  ? 
The  women,  ragged,  wretched,  and  half  dead, 
Sit  on  the  kerbstone  hot  and  hang  the  head, 
And    clustering    at   their   side    stand    children 

brown, 

Weary,  with  wondering  eyes  on  the  fair  town. 
Close  by  in  knots  beside  the  unhorsed  team 
The  sunburn'd  men  stand  talking  in  a  dream, 
For  the  vast  tracts  of  country  left  behind 
Seem  now  a  haunting  mirage  in  the  mind. 
Gaunt  miners  folding  hands  upon  their  breasts, 

Big-jointed  labourers  looking  ox-like  down, 
And  sickly  artizans  with  narrow  chests 

Still  pallid  from  the  smoke  of  English  town. 
Hard  by  to  these  a  group  of  Teutons  stand, 
Light-hair' d,  blue-eyed,  still  full  of  Fatherland, 


9o  MAIN  STREET,   UTAH 

With  water-loving  Northmen,  who  grow  gay 

To  see  the  mimic  sea  gleam  far  away. 

Now  to  this  group,   with  a  sharp   questioning 

face, 

Cometh  a  holy  magnate  of  the  place 
In    decent    black ;    shakes  hands   with   some ; 

and  then 

Begins  an  eager  converse  with  the  men : 
All  brighten  ;  even  the  children  hush  their  cries, 
And  the  pale  women  smile  with  sparkling  eyes. 

BISHOP. 

The  Prophet  welcomes  you,  and  sends 
His  message  by  my  mouth,  my  friends ; 
Hell  see  you  snug,  for  on  this  shore 
There's  heaps  of  room  for  millions  more !  . . 
Scotchman,  I  take  it  r  .  .  Ah,  I  know 
Glasgow — was  there  a  year  or  so.  .  . 
And  if  you  don't  from  Yorkshire  hail, 
I'll — ah,  I  thought  so  ;  seldom  fail. 


WELCOME  TO  CANAAN.  91 

Make  yourselves  snug  and  rest  a  spell, 
There's  liquor  coming — meat  as  well. 
All  welcome  !     We  keep  open  door — 
Ah,  we  don't  push  away  the  poor ; 
Tho'  he's  a  fool,  you  understand, 
Who  keeps  poor  long  in  this  here  land. 
The  land  of  honey  you  behold — 
Honey  and  milk — silver  and  gold  ! 

AN  ARTIZAN. 

Ah,  that's  the  style — Bess,  just  you  hear  it ; 
Come,  corne,  old  gal,  keep  up  your  spirit : 
Silver  and  gold,  and  milk  and  honey, 
This  is  the  country  for  our  money ! 

A  GERMAN. 

Es  lebe  die  Stadt !  es  lebe  dran  ! 
Das  heilige  Leben  steht  mir  an  1 

A  NORTHMAN. 
Taler  du  norske  ? 


92  MAIN  STREET,   UTAH. 


BISHOP. 

[Shaking  his  head,  and  turning  with  a  wink  to  the 
English^ 

No,  not  me ! 

Saxon's  the  language  of  the  free  : 
The  language  of  the  great  Evangels  ! 
The  language  of  the  Saints  and  Angels ! 
The  only  speech  that  Joseph  knew  ! 
The  speech  of  him  and  Brigham  too ! 
Only  the  speech  by  which  we've  thriven 
Is  comprehended  up  in  Heaven !  .  . 
Poor  heathens  !  but  we'll  make  'em  spry, 
They'll  talk  like  Christians  by  and  by. 

STRANGER. 

[Strolling  out  of  the  streetsl\ 

From  east,  from  west,  from  every  worn-out  land, 
Yearly  they  stream  to  swell  this  busy  band. 


DESERET.  93 

Out  of  the  fever'd  famine  of  the  slums, 
From  sickness,  shame,  and  sorrow,  Lazarus  comes, 
Drags  his  sore  limbs  o'er  half  the  world  and  sea, 
Seeking  for  freedom  and  felicity. 
The  sewer  of  ignorance  and  shame  and  loss, 
Draining  old  Europe  of  its  dirt  and  dross, 
Grows  the  great  City  by  the  will  of  God ; 
While  wondrously  out  of  the  desert  sod, 
Nourished  with  lives  unclean  and  weary  hearts 
The  new  faith  like  a  splendid  weed  upstarts. 
A  splendid  weed !  rather  a  fair  wild-flower, 
Strange  to  the  eye  in  its  first  birth  of  power, 
But  bearing  surely  in  its  breast  the  seeds 
Of  higher  issues  and  diviner  deeds. 
Changed  from  Sahara  to  a  fruitful  vale 
Fairer  than  ever  grew  in  fairy  tale, 
Transmuted  into  plenteous  field  and  glade 
By  the  slow  magic  of  the  white  man's  spade, 
Grows  Deseret,  filling  its  mighty  nest 
Between  the  eastern  mountains  and  the  west, 


94  MAIN  STREET,   UTAH. 

While — who  goes  there?     What  shape  antique 

looks  down 

From  this  green  mound  upon  the  festive  town, 
With  tall  majestic  figure  darkly  set 
Against  the  sky  in  dusky  silhouette  ? 
Strange  his  attire  :  a  blanket  edged  with  red 
Wrapt  royally  around  him  ;  on  his  head 
A  battered  hat  of  the  strange  modern  sort 
Which  men  have  christened  "  chimney  pots  "  in 

sport ; 

Mocassins  on  his  feet,  fur-fringed  and  grand, 
And  a  large  green  umbrella  in  his  hand. 
Pensive  he  stands  with  deep-lined  dreamy  face, 
Last  living  remnant  of  the  mighty  race 
Who  on  these  hunting-fields  for  many  a  year 
Chased  the  wild  buffalo,  and  elk,  and  deer. 
Heaven  help  him  !  In  his  mien  grief  and  despair 
Seem  to  contend,  as  he  stands  musing  there ; 
Until  he  notices  that  I  am  nigh, 
And  lo !  with  outstretched  hands  and  glistening 

eye 


THE  LAST  INDIAN.  95 

Swift    he   descends — Does   he   mean   mischief? 

No; 
He  smiles  and  beckons  as  I  turn  to  go. 

INDIAN. 

Me  Medicine  Crow.     White  man  gib  drink  to 

me. 
Great  chief;    much  squaw;   papoose,   sah,  one, 

two,  three  ! 

STRANGER. 

With  what  a  leer,  half  wheedling  and  half  wink- 
ing, 

The  lost  one  imitates  the  act  of  drinking ; 
His  nose  already,  to  his  woe  and  shame, 
Carbuncled  with  the  white  man's  liquid  flame  - 
Well,  I  pull  out  my  flask,  and  fill  a  cup 
Of  burning  rum — how  quick  he  gulps  it  up  ; 
And  in  a  moment  in  his  trembling  grip 
Thrusts  out  the  cup  for  more  with  thirsty  lip. 


96  MAIN  STREET,   UTAH. 

But  no  ! — already  drunken  past  a  doubt, 
Degenerate  nomad  of  the  plains,  get  out ! 

[A  railway  whistle  sounds  in  the  far  distance^ 

Fire-hearted  Demon  tamed  to  human  hand, 
Rushing  with  smoky  breath  from  land  to  land, 
Screaming  aloud  to  scare  with  rage  and  wrath 
Primaeval  ignorance  before  his  path, 
Dragging  behind  him  as  he  runs  along 
His  lilliputian  masters,  pale  and  strong, 
With  melancholy  sound  for  plain  and  hill 
Man's  last  Familiar  Spirit  whistles  shrill. 

Poor  devil  of  the  plains,  now  spent  and  frail, 
Hovering  wildly  on  the  fatal  trail, 
Pass  on  ! — there  lies  thy  way  and  thine  abode, 
Get  out  of  Jonathan  thy  master's  road. 
Where  ?  anywhere  ! — he's  not  particular  where} 
So  that  you  clear  the  road,  he  does  not  care; 


WHITE  MAN  AND  RED.  97 

Off,  quick !  clear  out !  ay,  drink  your  fill  and  die ; 
And,  since  the  Earth  rejects  you,  try  the  Sky ! 
And   see    if    He,   who    sent    your    white-faced 
brother 

v 

To  hound  and  drive  you  from  this  world  you 

bother, 
Can  find  a  corner  for  you  in  another ! 


IV. 


WITHIN  THJi  oYNAGOGUE.— SERMONIZETH  THE 
PROPHET. 

Sisters  and  brothers  who  love  the  right, 

Saints  whose  hearts  are  divinely  beating, 
Children  rejoicing  in  the  light, 

I  reckon  this  is  a  pleasant  meeting. 
Where's  the  face  with  a  look  of  grief? — 

Jehovah's  with  us  and  leads  the  battle  ; 
We've  had  a  harvest  beyond  belief, 

And  the  signs  of  fever  have  left  the  cattle  ; 

All  still  blesses  the  holy  life 

\ 
Here  in  the  land  of  milk  and  honey. 


DESCRIBETH  THE  FLIGHT  FROM  EGYPT.  99 

FEMININE  WHISPERS. 

Brother  Shuttle  worth's  seventeenth  wife,  .  . 
Her  with  the  heer  brushed  up  so  funny  ! 

THE  PROPHET. 

Out  of  Egypt  hither  we  flew, 

Through  the  desert  and  rocky  places ; 
The  people  murmur'd,  and  all  look'd  blue, 

The  bones  of  the  martyr'd  filled  our  traces. 
Mountain  and  valley  we  crawl'd  along, 

And  every  morning  our  hearts  beat  quicker. 
Our  flesh  was  weak,  but  our  souls  were  strong, 
/    And  we'd  managed  to  carry  some  kegs  of 

liquor. 
At  last  we  halted  on  yonder  height, 

Just  as  the  sun  in  the  west  was  blinking. 

FEMININE  WHISPERS. 
Isn't  Jedge  Hawkins's  last  a  fright  ?  .  .  . 

I'm  suttin  that  Brother  Abe's  been  drinking! 


ioo  WITHIN  THE  SYNAGOGUE. 


THE  PROPHET. 

That  night,  my  lambs,  in  a  wondrous  dream, 

I  saw  the  gushing  of  many  fountains  ; 
Soon  as  the  morning  began  to  beam, 

Down  we  went  from  yonder  mountains, 
Found  the  water  just  where  I  thought, 

Fresh  and  good,  though  a  trifle  gritty, 
Pitch'd  our  tents  in  the  plain,  and  wrought 

The  site  and  plan  of  the  Holy  City. 
"  Pioneers  of  the  blest,"  I  cried, 

"  Dig,  and  the  Lord  will  bless  each  spade- 
ful." 

FEMININE  WHISPERS. 

Brigham's  sealed  to  another  Bride.  .  . 

How  worn  he's  gittin'!  he's  aging  dread- 
ful. 


HOW  THE  CITY  WAS  FOUNDED.       101 

THE  PROPHET. 

This  is  a  tale  so  often  told, 

The  theme  of  every  eventful  meeting ; 
Yes !  you  may  smile  and  think  it  old ; 

But  yet  it's  a  tale  that  will  bear  repeating. 
That's  how  the  City  of  Light  began, 

That's  how  we  founded  the  saintly  nation, 
All  by  the  spade  and  the  arm  of  man, 

And  the  aid  of  a  special  dispensation. 
"  Work  "  was  the  word  when  we  begun, 

"  Work  "  is  the  word  now  we  have  plenty. 

FEMININE  WHISPERS. 

Heard  about  Sister  Euphemia's  son  ?  .  . 
Sealing  already,  though  only  twenty ! 


THE  PROPHET,^  ' 

I  say  just  now  what  I  used  to  say, 

Though  it  moves  the  heathens  to  mock  and 
laughter, 


io*  WITHIN  THE  SYNAGOGUE. 

From  work  to  prayer  is  the  proper  way — 

Labour  first,  and  Religion  after. 
Let  a  big  man,  strong  in  body  and  limb, 

Come  here  inquiring  about  his  Maker, 
This  is  the  question  I  put  to  him, 

"  Can   you    grow  a    cabbage,  or    reap   an 

acre  ? " 
What's  the  soul  but  a  flower  sublime, 

Grown  in  the  earth  and  upspringing  surely  ? 

FEMININE  WHISPERS. 

O  yes !  she's  hed  a  most  dreadful  time  ! 

Twins,    both    thriving,    though     she's    so 
poorly. 

THE  PROPHET. 

Beauty,  my  friends,  is  the  crown  of  life, 

To  the  young  and  foolish  seldom  granted  ; 

After  a  youth  of  honest  strife 

Comes  the  reward  for  which  you've  panted. 


SAINTLY  BLISS.  103 

O  blessed  sight  beyond  compare, 

When  life  with  its  halo  of  light  is  rounded, 
To  see  a  Saint  with  reverend  hair 

Sitting  like  Solomon  love -surrounded  ! 

w^ty 
One  at  his  feet  and  one  on  his  knee, 

Others  around  him,  blue-eyed  and  dreamy ! 


FEMININE  WHISPERS. 

All  very  well,  but  as  for  mey 

My     man     had    better! — I'd    pison    him, 

Pheemv!  ^i^ 

• 

THE  PROPHET. 

There  in  the  gate  of  Paradise 

The  Saint  is  sitting  serene  and  hoary, 

Tendrils  of  arms,  and  blossoms  of  eyes, 

Festoon  him  round  in  his  place  of  glory  ; 

Little  cherubs  float  thick  as  bees 

Round  about  him,  and  murmur  "  father ! " 


104  WITHIN  THE  SYNAGOGUE. 

The  sun  shines  bright  and  he  sits  at  ease, 
Fruit  all  round  for  his  hand  to  gather. 

Blessed  is  he  both  night  and  day, 

Floating  to  Heaven  and  adding  to  it ! 

FEMININE  WHISPERS. 

Thought  I  should  have  gone  mad  that  day 
He  brought  a  second ;  I  made  him  rue  it ! 

THE  PROPHET. 

Sisters  and  Brothers  by  love  made  wise, 

Remember,  when  Satan  attempts  to  quell 

you, 
If  this  here  Earth  isn't  Paradise 

You'll  never  see  it,  and  so  I  tell  you. 
Dig  and  drain,  and  harrow  and  sow, 

God  will  bless  you  beyond  all  measure; 
Labour,  and  meet  with  reward  below, 

For  what  is  the  end  of  all  labour?     Plea- 
sure! 


THE  PROPHET  DEFINETH  HOLINESS.   105 

Labour's  the  vine,  and  pleasure's  the  grape, 
The  one  delighting,  the  other  bearing. 


FEMININE  WHISPERS. 

Higginson's  third  is  losing  her  shape. 

She  hes  too  many — it's  dreadful  wearing. 


THE  PROPHET. 

But  I  hear  some  awakening  spirit  cry, 

"  Labour  is  labour,  and  all  men  know  it ; 
But  what  is  pleasure  ? "  and  I  reply, 

Grace  abounding  and  Wives  to  show  it ! 
Holy  is  he  beyond  compare 

Who  tills  his  acres  and  takes  his  blessing, 
Who  sees  around  him  everywhere 

Sisters  soothing  and  babes  caressing. 
And  his  delight  is  Heaven's  as  well, 

For  swells  he  not  the  ranks  of  the  chosen  ? 


io6  WITHIN  THE  SYNAGOGUE. 

FEMININE  WHISPERS. 

Martha  is  growing  a  handsome  gel.  .  . 

Three  at  a  birth  r — that  makes  the  dozen ! 

THE  PROPHET. 

Learning's  a  shadow,  and  books  a  jest, 

One  Book's  a  Light,  but  the  rest  are  human. 
The  kind  of  study  that  I  think  best 

Is   the   use  of  a  spade  and  the  love  of  a 

woman. 
Here  and  yonder,  in  heaven  and  earth, 

By  big  Salt  Lake  and  by  Eden  river, 
The  finest  sight  is  a  man  of  worth, 

Never  tired  of  increasing  his  quiver. 
He  sits  in  the  light  of  perfect  grace, 

With  a  dozen  cradles  going  together ! 

FEMININE  WHISPERS. 

The  babby's  growing  black  in  the  face  ! 

Carry  him  out — it's  the  heat  of  the  woather ! 


THE  PROPHET  ENJOINETH  FAITH,    xoy 

THE  PROPHET. 

A  faithful  vine  at  the  door  of  the  Lord, 

A  shining  flower  in  the  garden  of  spirits, 
A  lute  whose  strings  are  of  sweet  accord, 

Such  is  the  person  of  saintly  merits. 
Sisters  and  brothers,  behold  and  strive 

Up  to  the  level  of  his  perfection ; 
Sow,  and  harrow,  and  dig,  and  thrive, 

Increase  according  to  God's  direction. 
This  is  the  Happy  Land,  no  doubt, 

Where  each  may  flourish  in  his  vocation.  .  • 
Brother  Bantam  will  now  give  out 

The  hymn  of  love  and  of  jubilation. 


V. 

THE  FALLING  OF  THE  THUNDERBOLT. 

Deep  and  wise  beyond  expression 
Sat  the  Prophet  holding  session, 
And  his  Elders,  round  him  sitting 
With  a  gravity  befitting, 
Never  rash  and  never  fiery, 
Chew'd  the  cud  of  each  inquiry, 
Weighed  each  question  and  discussed  it, 
Sought  to  si  Ltle  and  adjust  it, 
Till,  with  sudden  indication 
Of  a  gush  of  inspiration, 
The  grave  Prophet  from  their  middle 
Gave  the  answer  to  their  riddle, 


PRESCIENCE  OF  THE  PROPHET.       109 

And  the  lesser  lights  all  holy, 
Round  the  Lamp  revolving  slowly, 
Thought,  with  eyes  and  lips  asunder, 
"  Righty  we  reckon,  he's  a  wonder  1" 


Whether  Boyes,  that  blessed  brother, 
Should  be  sealed  unto  another, 
Having,  tho'  a  Saint  most  steady, 
Very  many  wives  already  ? 
Whether  it  was  held  improper, 
If  a  woman  drank,  to  drop  her  ? 
Whether  unto  Brother  Fleming 
Formal  praise  would  be  beseeming, 
Since  from  three  or  four  potatoes, 
(Not  much  bigger  than  his  great  toes) 
He'd  extracted,  to  their  wonder, 
Four  stone  six  and  nothing  under  ? 
Whether  Bigg  be  reprimanded 
For  his  conduct  underhanded, 


no     FALLING  OF  THE  THUNDERBOLT. 

Since  he'd  packed  his  prettiest  daughter 
To  a  heathen  o'er  the  water  ? 
How,  now  Thompson  had  departed, 
His  poor  widows,  broken-hearted, 
Should  be  settled  r     They  were  seven, 
Sweet  as  cherubs  up  in  heaven ; 
Three  were  handsome,  young,  and  pleasant 
And  had  offers  on  at  present — 
*  Must  they  take  them  ?  .  .  These  and  other 
Questions  proffer'd  by  each  brother, 
The  great  Prophet  ever  gracious, 
Free  and  easy,  and  sagacious, 
Answer'd  after  meditation 
With  sublime  deliberation  ; 
And  his  answers  were  so  clever 
Each  one  whisper'd,  "  Well  I  never!" 
And  the  lesser  lights  all  holy, 
Round  the  Prophet  turning  slowly, 
Raised  their  reverend  heads  and  hoary, 
Thinking,  "  To  the  Prophet,  glory ! 


CONSTERNATION  IN  THE  SESSION,  in 

Hallelujah,  veneration, 
Reckon  that  he  licks  creation  ! " 

Suddenly  as  they  sat  gleaming, 

On  them  came  an  unbeseeming 

Murmur,  tumult,  and  commotion, 

Like  the  breaking  of  the  ocean  ; 

And  before  a  word  was  utter'd, 

In  rush'd  one  with  voice  that  fluttered, 

Arms  uplifted,  face  the  colour 

Of  a  bran-new  Yankee  dollar, 

Like  a  man  whose  wits  are  addled, 

Crying— "  Brother  Abe's  skedaddled!  " 

Then  those  Elders  fearful-hearted 

Raised  a  loud  cry  and  upstarted, 

But  the  Prophet,  never  rising, 

Said,  "Be  calm  !  this  row's  surprising  !" 

And  as  each  Saint  sank  unsinew'd 

In  his  arm-chair  he  continued  : 


ii2     FALLING  OF  THE  THUNDERBOLT. 

"  Goodman  Jones,  your  cheeks  are  yellow, 
Tell  thy  tale,  and  do  not  bellow ! 
What's  the  reason  of  your  crying — 
Is  our  brother  dead  ?  —  or  dying  ?" 

As  the  Prophet  spake,  supremely 
Hushing  all  the  strife  unseemly, 
Sudden  in  the  room  there  entered 
Shapes  on  whom  all  eyes  were  centred- 
Six  sad  female  figures  moaning, 
Trembling,  weeping,  and  intoning, 
"  We  are  widows  broken-hearted — 
Abraham  Clewson  has  departed  ! " 

While  the  Saints  again  upleaping 
Joined  their  voices  to  the  weeping, 
For  a  moment  the  great  Prophet 
Trembled,  and  look'd  dark  as  Tophet. 
But  the  cloud  pass'd  over  lightly. 
"  Cease  1 "  he  cried,  but  sniffled  slightly, 


SISTER  TABITHA  EXPLAINETH.       113 

"  Cease  this  murmur  and  be  quiet — 
Dead  men  won't  awake  with  riot. 
'Tis  indeed  a  loss  stupendous — 
When  will  Heaven  his  equal  send  us  ? 
Speak,  then,  of  our  brother  cherish' d, 
Was  it  fits  by  which  he  perish'd  ? 
Or  did  Death  come  even  quicker, 
Thro*  a  bolting  horse  or  kicker  \" 


At  the  Prophet's  question  scowling, 
All  the  Wives  stood  moaning,  howling, 
Crying  wildly  in  a  fever, 
"  O  the  villain  !  the  deceiver  '  " 
But  the  oldest  stepping  boldly, 
Curtseying  to  the  Session  coldly, 
Cried  in  voice  like  cracking  thunder, 
"  Prophet,  don't  you  make  a  blunder  ! 
Abraham  Clewson  isn't  dying — 
Hasn't  died,  as  you're  implying. 
I 


ii4     FALLING  OF  THE  THUNDERBOLT. 

No !  he's  not  the  man,  my  brothers, 
To  die  decently  like  others  ! 
Worse  !  he's  from  your  cause  revolte  d — 
Run  away  !  ske-daddled  !  bolted ! " 


Bolted  !  run  away  !  skedaddled ! 
Like  to  men  whose  wits  are  addled, 
Echoed  all  those  Lights  so  holy, 
Round  the  Prophet  shining  slowly ; 
And  the  Prophet,  undissembling, 
Underneath  the  blow  sat  trembling, 
While  the  perspiration  hovered 
On  his  forehead,  and  he  covered 
With  one  trembling  hand  his  features 
From  the  gaze  of  smaller  creatures. 
Then  at  last  the  high  and  gifted 
Cough'd  and  craved,  with  hands  uplifted, 
Silence.   When  'twas  given  duly, 
"  This,"  said  he,  "  's  a  crusher  truly ! 


STRANGE  TRANCE  OF  THE  PROPHET.    115 

Brother  Clewson  fall'n  from  glory ! 
I  can  scarce  believe  your  story. 
O  my  Saints,  each  in  his  station, 
Join  in  prayer  and  meditation ! " 

Covering  up  each  eyelid  saintly 
With  a  finger  tip,  prayed  faintly, 
Shining  in  the  church's  centre, 
Their  great  Prophet,  Lamp,  and  Mentor; 
And  the  lesser  Lights  all  holy, 
Round  the  Lamp  revolving  slowly, 
Each  upon  his  seat  there  sitting, 
With  a  gravity  befitting, 
Bowed  their  reverend  heads  and  hoary, 
Saying,  "  To  the  Prophet  glory ! 
Hallelujah,  veneration ! 
Reckon  that  he  licks  creation  !" 

Lastly,  when  the  trance  was  ended, 
And,  with  face  where  sorrow  blended 


n6     FALLING  OF  THE  THUNDERBOLT. 

Into  pity  and  compassion, 
Shone  the  Light  in  common  fashion  ; 
Forth  the  Brother  stept  who  brought  them 
First  the  news  which  had  distraught  them, 
And,  while  stood  the  Widows  weeping, 
Gave  into  the  Prophet's  keeping 
A  seal'd  paper,  which  the  latter 
Read,  as  if  'twere  solemn  matter — 
Gravely  pursing  lips  and  nodding, 
While  they  watch' d  in  dark  foreboding, 
Till  at  last,  with  voice  that  quivered, 
He  these  woeful  words  delivered : — 


"  Sisters,  calm  your  hearts  unruly, 

'Tis  an  awful  business  truly  ; 

Weeping  now  will  save  him  never, 

He's  as  good  as  lost  for  ever ; 

Yes,  I  say  with  grief  unspoken, 

Jest  a  pane  crack' d,  smash' d,  and  broken 


ST.  ABFS  LETTER.  117 

In  the  windows  of  the  Temple — 
Crack'd  's  the  word — so  take  example ! 
Had  he  left  ye  one  and  all  here 
On  our  holy  help  to  call  here, 
Fled  alone  from  every  fetter, 
I  could  comprehend  it  better  ! 
Flying,  not  with  some  strange  lady, 
But  with  her  he  had  already, 
With  his  own  real'd  Wife  eloping — 
It's  a  case  of  craze  past  hoping  ! 
List,  O  Saints,  each  in  his  station, 
To  the  idiot's  explanation  !  " 

Then,  while  now  and  then  the  holy 
Broke  the  tale  of  melancholy 
With  a  grunt  contempt  expressing, 
And  the  widows  made  distressing 
Murmurs  of  recrimination 
Here  and  there  in  the  narration, 
The  great  Prophet  in  affliction 
Read  this  awful  Valediction  ! 


VI. 

LAST  EPISTLE   OF    ST.  ABE   TO  THE 
POLYGAMISTS. 

0  Brother,  Prophet  of  the  Light ! — don't  let  my 

state  distress  you, 

While  from  the  depths  of  darkest  night  I  cry, 
"  Farewell !  God  bless  you  !  " 

1  don't  deserve  a  parting  tear,  nor  even  a  male- 

diction, 
Too  weak  to  fill  a  saintly  sphere,  I  yield  to  my 

affliction  ; 
Down   like    a  cataract  I  shoot  into  the  depths 

below  you, 
While  you  stand  wondering  and  mute,  my  last 

adieu  I  throw  you ; 


HIS  MESSAGE  TO  HIS  WIDOWS.        ug 

Commending  to  your  blessed  care  my  well-be- 
loved spouses, 

My  debts  (there's  plenty  and  to  spare  to  pay 
them),  lands,  and  houses, 

My  sheep,  my  cattle,  farm  and  fold,  yea,  all  by 
which  I've  thriven  : 

These  to  be  at  the  auction  sold,  and  to  my 
widows  given. 

Bless  them  !  to  prize  them  at  their  worth  was 
far  beyond  my  merit, 

Just  make  them  think  me  in  the  earth,  a  poor 
departed  spirit. 

I  couldn't  bear  to  say  good-bye,  and  see  their 
tears  up-starting ; 

I  thought  it  best  to  pack  and  fly  without  the 
pain  of  parting  ! 

O  tell  Amelia,  if  she  can,  by  careful  educa- 
tion, 

To  make  her  boy  grow  up  a  man  of  strength 
and  saintly  station ! 


izo  LAST  EPISTLE  OF  ST.  ABE. 

Tell  Fanny  to  beware  of  men,  and  say  I'm  still 
her  debtor — 

Tho'  she  cut  sharpish  now  and  then,  I  think  it 
made  me  better ! 

Let  Emily  still  her  spirit  fill  with  holy  consola- 
tions— 

Seraphic  soul,  I  hear  her  still  a-reading  "  Reve- 
lations ! " 

Bid  Mary  now  to  dry  her  tears — she's  free  of  her 
chief  bother ; 

And  comfort  Sarah — I've  my  fears  she's  going  to 
be  a  mother ; 

And  to  Tabitha  give  for  me  a  tender  kiss  of 
healing — 

Guilt  wrings  my  soul — I  seem  to  see  that  well- 
known  face  appealing ! 

And  now, — before  my  figure  fades  for  ever  from 

your  vision, 
Before  I  mingle  with  the  shades  beyond  your 

light  Elysian, 


ST.  ABE  LAMENTETH  HIS  DO  WNFALL.     1 2 1 

Now,  while   your  faces  all  turn  pale,  and  you 

raise  eyes  and  shiver, 
Let  me  a  round  unvarnish'd  tale  (as  Shakspere 

says)  deliver ; 
And  let  there  be  a  warning  text  in  my  most 

shameful  story, 
When  some  poor  sheep,  perplext  and  vext,  goes 

seeking  too  much  glory.     * 
O  Brigham,  think  of  my  poor  fate,  a  scandal  to 

beholders, 
And  don't  again  put  too   much  weight  before 

you've  tried  the  shoulders  ! 

Though  I'd  the  intellectual  gift,  and  knew  the 

rights  and  reasons ; 
Though    I    could    trade,   and   save,   and   shift, 

according  to  the  seasons ; 
Though  I  was  thought  a  clever  man,  and  was  at 

spouting  splendid, — 
Just  think  how  finely  I  began,  and  see  how  all 

has  ended ! 


122  LAST  EPISTLE  OF  ST.  ABE. 

In  principle  unto   this   hour    I'm   still   a    holy 

being — 
But  oh,  how  poorly  is  my  power  proportion' d  to 

my  seeing! 
You've  all  the  logic  on  your  side,  you're  right  in 

each  conclusion, 
And  yet  how  vainly  have  I  tried,  with  eager 

resolution ! 
My  will  was  good,  I  felt  the  call,  although  my 

strength  was  meagre, 
There  wrasn't  one  among  you  all  to  serve  the 

Lord  more  eager ! 
I  never  tired  in  younger  days  of  drawing  lambs 

unto  me, 
My  lot  was  one  to  bless  and  praise,  the  fire  of 

faith  thrill'd  through  me. 
And  you,  believing  I  was  strong,  smiled  on  me 

like  a  father, — 
Said,  "Blessed  be  this  man,  though  young,  who 

the  sweet  lambs  doth  gather  !  " 


ST.  ABE  DEFINETH  VIRTUE.  123 

At  first  it  was   a  time  full   blest,  and   all   my 

earthy  pleasure 
Was  gathering  lambs  unto  my  breast  to  cherish 

and  to  treasure ; 
Ay,  one  by  one,  for  heaven's  sake,  my  female 

flock  I  found  me, 
Until    one   day   I   did   awake  and   heard   them 

bleating  round  me, 
And  there  was  sorrow  in  their  eyes,  and  mute 

reproach  and  wonder, 

For  they  perceived  to  their  surprise  their  Shep- 
herd was  a  blunder. 
O  Brigham,  think  of  it  and  weep,  my  firm  and 

saintly  Master — 
The  Pastor  trembled  at  his  Sheep,  the  Sheep  despised 

the  Pastor  ! 

O  listen  to  the  tale  of  dread,  thou  Light  that 
shines  so  brightly — 

Virtue's  a  horse  that  drops  down  dead  if  over- 
loaded slightly ! 


124  LAST  EPISTLE  OF  ST.  ABE. 

She's  all  the  will,  she  wants  to  go,  she'd  carry 

every  tittle ; 
But  when  you  see  her  flag  and  blow,  just  ease 

her  of  a  little  ! 
One  wife  for  me   \vas  near  enough,  two  might 

have  fixed  me  neatly, 
Three  made  me  shake,  four  made  me  puff,  five 

settled  me  completely, — 
But  when   the   sixth  came,  though  I  still  was 

glad  and  never  grumbled, 
I  took  the  staggers,  kick'd,  went  ill,  and  in  the 

traces  tumbled! 

Ah,  well  may  I  compare  my  state  unto  a  beast's 
position — 

Unfit  to  bear  a  saintly  weight,  I  sank  and  lost 
condition ; 

I  lack'd  the  moral  nerve  and  thew,  to  fill  so  fine 
a  station — 

Ah,  if  I'd  had  a  head  like  you,  and  your  deter- 
mination ! 


]VA  RNETH  A  GAINST  SENTIMENT.      1 2  5 

Instead  of  going   in    and   out,  like   a   superior 

party, 
I  was  too  soft  of  heart,  no  doubt,  too  open,  and 

too  hearty. 
When  I  began  with  each  young  sheep  I  was  too 

free  and  loving, 
Not  being  strong  and  wise  and  deep,  I  set  her 

feelings  moving ; 
And  so,  instead  of  noticing  the  gentle  flock  in 

common, 
I  waken'd  up  that  mighty  thing — the  Spirit  of  a 

Woman. 
Each  got  to  think  me,  don't  you  see, — so  foolish 

was  the  feeling, — 
Her  own  especial  property,  which  all  the  rest 

were  stealing ! 
And,  since  I  could  not  give  to  each  the  whole  of 

my  attention, 

All  came  to  grief,  and  parts  of  speech  too  deli- 
cate to  mention ! 


126  LAST  EPISTLE  OF  ST.  ABE. 

Bless  them !  they  loved  me  far  too  much,  they 

erred  in  their  devotion, 
I  lack'd  the  proper  saintly  touch,  subduing  mere 

emotion  : — N 
The  solemn  air  sent  from  the  skies,  so  cold,  so 

tranquillising, 
That  on  the  female  waters  lies,  and  keeps  the 

same  from  rising, 
But   holds  them  down  all   smooth  and   bright, 

and,  if  some  wild  wind  storms  'em, 
Comes  like  a  cold  frost  in  the  night,  and  into  ice 

transforms  'em  ! 

And  there,  between  ourselves,  I  see  the  diffi- 
culty growing, 

Since  most  men  are  as  meek  as  me,  too  pas- 
sionate and  glowing ; 

They  cannot  in  your  royal  way  dwell  like  a 
guest  from  Heaven 

Within  this  tenement  of  clay,  which  for  the  Soul 
Is  tfiven  ; 


THE  FLESH  AND  THE  SPIRIT.         127 

They  cannot  like  a  blessed  guest  come  calm  and 

strong  into  it, 
Eating   and   drinking   of  its   best,   and   calmly 

gazing  thro'  it. 
No,  every  mortal's  not  a  Saint,  and  truly  very 

few  are, 
So  weak  they  are,  they  cannot  paint  what  holy 

men  like  you  are. 
Instead   of  keeping  well   apart  the  Flesh  and 

Spirit,  brother, 
And  making  one  with  cunning  art  the  nigger  of 

the  other, 
They  muddle  and  confuse  the  two,  they  mix  and 

twist  and  mingle, 
So  that  it  takes  a  cunning  view  to  make  out 

either  single. 
The  Soul  gets  mingled  with  the  Flesh  beyond  all 

separation, 

The  Body  holds  it  in  a  mesh  of  animal  sensa- 
tion ; 


128  LAST  EPISTLE  OF  ST.  ABE. 

The  poor  bewilder' d  Being,  grown   a  thing  in 

nature  double, 
Half  light  and  soul,  half  flesh  and  bone,  is  given 

up  to  trouble. 
He  thinks  the  instinct  of  the  clay,  the  glowings 

of  the  Spirit, 
And  when  the  Spirit  has  her  say,  inclines  the 

Flesh  to  hear  it. 
The  slave  of  every  passing  whim,  the  dupe  of 

every  devil, 
Inspired  by  every  female  limb  to  love,  and  light, 

and  revel, 
Impulsive,  timid,  weak,  or  strong,  as  Flesh  or 

Spirit  makes  him, 
The  lost  one  wildly  moans   along  till  mischief 

overtakes  him  ; 
And  when  the  Soul  has  fed  upon  the  Flesh  till 

life's  spring  passes, 
Finds  strength  and  health  and  comfort  gone — 

the  way  of  last  year's  grasses, 


SUBDUING  OF  THE  FLESH.  129 

And  the  poor  Soul  is  doom'd  to  bow,  in  deep 

humiliation, 
Within  a  place  that  isn't  now  a  decent  habitation. 

No  !    keep  the  Soul   and  Flesh  apart  in  pious 

resolution, 
Don't  let  weak  flutterings  of  the  heart  lead  you 

to  my  confusion  ! 
But  let  the  Flesh  be  as  the  horse,  the  Spirit  as 

the  rider, 
And  use  the  snaffle  first  of  course,  and  ease  her 

up  and  guide  her  ; 
And  if  she's  going  to  resist,  and  won't  let  none 

go  past  her, 
Just  take  the  curb  and  give  a  twist,  and  show 

her  you're  the  Master. 
The  Flesh  is  but  a  temporal  thing,  and  Satan's 

strength  is  in  it, 
Use  it,  but  conquer  it,  and  bring  its  vice  down 

every  minute  ! 

K 


130  '         LAST  EPISTLE  OF  ST.  ABE. 

Into  a  woman's  arms  don't  fall,  as  if  you  meant 

to  stay  there, 
Just  come  as  if  ycu'd  made  a  call,  and  idly  found 

your  way  there  ; 
Don't  praise  her  too  much  to  her  face,  but  keep 

her  calm  and  quiet, — 
Most  female  illnesses  take  place  thro'  far  too 

warm  a  diet ; 
Unto  her  give  your  fleshly  kiss,  calm,  kind,  and 

patronising, 
Then — soar  to  your  own  sphere  of  bliss,  before 

her  heart  gets  rising  ! 
Don't  fail  to  let  her  see  full  clear,  how  in  your 

saintly  station 
The  Flesh  is  but  your  nigger  here  obeying  your 

dictation  ; 
And  tho'  the  Flesh  be  e'er  so  warm,  your  Soul 

the  weakness  smothers 
Of  loving  any  female  form  much  better  than  the 

others ! 


DIVIDETH  MEN  INTO  TWO  CLASSES.  131 

O  Brigham,  I  can  see  you   smile  to  hear  the 

Devil  preaching ; — 
Well,  I  can  praise  your  perfect  style,  tho'  far 

beyond  my  reaching. 
Forgive  me,  if  in  shame  and  grief  I  vex  you  with 

digression, 
And  let  me  come  again  in  brief  to  my  own  dark 

confession. 

The  world  of  men  divided  is  into  two  portions, 
brother, 

The  first  are  Saints,  so  high  in  bliss  that  they  the 
Flesh  can  smother ; 

God  meant  them  from  fair  flower  to  flower  to 
flutter,  smiles  bestowing, 

Tasting  the  sweet,  leaving  the  sour,  just  hover- 
ing,—and  going. 

The  second  are  a  different  set,  just  halves  of 
perfect  spirits, 

Going  about  in  bitter  fret,  of  uncompleted 
merits, 


1 32  LAST  EPISTLE  OF  ST.  ABE. 

Till  they  discover,  here  or  there,  their  other  half 

(or  woman), 
Then  these  two  join,  and  make  a  Pair,  and  so 

increase  the  human. 

The  second  Souls  inferior  are,  a  lower  spirit- 
order, 
Born  'neath  a  less  auspicious  star,  and  taken  by 

soft  sawder ; — 
And  if  they  do  not  happen  here  to  find  their  fair 

Affinity, 
They  come  to  grief  and  doubt  and  fear,  and  end 

in  assininity ; 
And   if   they   try   the  blessed    game   of   those 

superior  to  them, 
They're  very  quickly  brought  to  shame, — their 

passions  so  undo  them. 
In  some  diviner  sphere,  perhaps,  they'll  look  and 

grow  more  holy, — 
Meantime  they're  vessels  Sorrow  taps  and  grim 

Remorse  sucks  slowly. 


HOW  ST.  ABE  BLUNDERED  IN  SEALING.   1 33 

Now,  Brigham,  7  was  made,  you  see,  one  of 

those  lower  creatures, 
Polygamy  was  not  for  me,  altho'    I  joined  its 

preachers. 
Instead  of,  with   a  wary  eye,  seeking  the  one 

who  waited, 
And  sticking  to  her,  wet  or  dry,  because  the 

thing  was  fated, 
I  snatch'd  the  first  whose  beauty  stirred  my  soul 

with  tender  feeling  ! 

And  then  another !  then  a  third !  and  so  con- 
tinued Sealing ! 
And    duly,    after    many   a    smart,    discovered, 

sighing  faintly, 
I  hadn't  found  my  missing    part,   and    wasn't 

strong  and  saintly ! 
O  they  were  far  too  good  for  me,  altho'  their 

zeal  betrayed  them ; — 
Unfortunately,  don't  you  see,  heaven  for  some 

other  made  them : 


134  LAST  EPISTLE  OF  ST.  ABE. 

Each  would  a  downright  blessing  be,  and  Peace 

would  pitch  the  tent  for  her, 
If  "  she  "  could  only  find  the  "  he  "  originally 

meant  for  her ! 

Well,  Brother,  after  many  years  of  bad  domestic 

diet, 
One  morning  I  woke  up  in  tears,  still  weary  and 

unquiet, 
And  (speaking  figuratively)  lo  !  beside  my  bed 

stood  smiling 

The  Woman,  young  and  virgin  snow,  but  beckon- 
ing and  beguiling. 
I  started  up,  my  wild  eyes  rolled,  I  knew  her, 

and  stood  sighing, 
My  thoughts  throng' d  up  like  bees  of  gold  out  of 

the  smithy  flying. 
And  as  she  stood  in  brightness  there,  familiar, 

tho'  a  stranger, 
I  looked  at  her  in  dumb  despair,  and  trembled 

at  the  danger. 


THE  RAPTURES  OF  THE  UNSAINTLY.  135 

But,  Brother   Brigham,    don't  you   think  the 

Devil  could  so  undo  me, 
That  straight  I  rushed  the  cup  to  drink  too  late 

extended  to  me. 
No,  for  I  hesitated  long,  ev'n  when  I  found  she 

loved  me, 
And  didn't  seem  to  think  it  wrong  when  love 

and  passion  moved  me. 
O  Brigham,  you're  a  Saint  above,  and  know  not 

the  sensation 
The  ecstasy,  the  maddening  love,  the  rapturous 

exultation, 
That  fills  a  man  of  lower  race  with  wonder  past 

all  speaking, 
When  first  he  finds  in  one  sweet  face  the  Soul  he 

has  been  seeking ! 
When   two   immortal   beings   glow  in  the  first 

fond  revealing, 
And  their  inferior  natures  know  the  luxury  of 

feeling ! 


136  LAST  EPISTLE  OF  ST.  ABE. 

But  ah,  I  had  already  got  a  quiver-full  of  bless- 
ing, 

Had  blundered,  tho'  I  knew  it  not,  six  times 
beyond  redressing, 

And  surely  it  was  time  to  stop,  tho'  still  my  lot 
was  lonely  : 

My  house  was  like  a  cobbler's  shop,  full,  tho' 
with  "  misfits  "  only. 

And   so    I    should   have    stopt,    I    swear,    the 

wretchedest  of  creatures, 
Rather    than    put    one    mark   of    care   on   her 

beloved  features  : 
But  that  it  happen'd  Sister  Anne  (ah,  now  the 

secret's  flitted !) 
Was  left  in  this  great  world  of  man  unto  my 

care  committed. 
Her  father,  Jason  Jones,  was  dead,  a  man  whose 

faults  were  many, 
"  O,  be  a  father,  Abe,"  he  said,  "  to  my  poor 

daughter,  Annie ! " 


DESCRIBETH  HIS  OWN  JEALOUSY.    137 

And  so  I  promised,  so  she  came  an  Orphan  to 

this  city, 
And  set  my  foolish  heart  in  flame  with  mingled 

love  and  pity ; 
And  as  she  prettier  grew  each  day,  and  throve 

'neath  my  protection, 
/  saw  the  Saints  did  cast  her  way  some  tokens  of 

affection. 
O,  Brigham,   pray  forgive  me  now ; — envy  and 

love  combining, 

I    hated    every    saintly  brow,   benignantly  in- 
clining ! 
Sneered   at   their    motives,   mocked   the  cause, 

went  wild  and  sorrow-laden, 
And  saw  Polygamy's  vast  jaws  a-y awning  for 

the  maiden. 
Why  not,  you   say  ?      Ah,   yes,  why  not,  from 

your  high  point  of  vision  ; 
But  I'm   of  an   inferior  lot,,  beyond  the  light 

Elysian. 


138  LAST  EPISTLE  OF  ST.  ABE. 

I  tore  my  hair,  whined  like  a  whelp,  I  loved  her 

to  distraction, 
I  saw  the  danger,  knew  the  help,  yet  trembled 

at  the  action. 
At  last  I  came  to  you,  my  friend,  and  told  my 

tender  feeling ; 
You  said,  "  Your  grief  shall  have  an  end — this  is 

a  case  for  Sealing  ; 
And  since  you  have  deserved  so  well,  and  made 

no  heinous  blunder, 
Why,  brother  Abraham,  take  the  gel,  but  mind 

you  keep  her  under." 
Well !  then  I  went  to  Sister  Anne,  my  inmost 

heart  unclothing, 
Told  her  my  feelings   like   a   man,  concealing 

next  to  nothing, 
Explained  the  various  characters  of  those  I  had 

already, 
The  various  tricks  and  freaks  and  stirs  peculiar 

to  each  lady, 


SISTER  ANNE  LAST  OF  THE  SEVEN.   139 

And,   finally,   when    all   was    clear,    and    hope 

seem'd  to  forsake  me, 
"  There  !  it's  a  wretched  chance,  my  dear — you 

leave  me,  or  you  take  me." 
Well,   Sister  Annie   look'd   at   me,  her   inmost 

heart  revealing 
(Women  are  very  weak,  you  see,  inferior,  full  of 

feeling), 
Then,  thro'  her   tears   outshining   bright,  "  I'll 

never  never  leave  you  ! 
"  O  Abe,"   she  said,   "  my  love,  my  light,  why 

should  I  pain  or  grieve  you  ? 
I  do  not  love  the  way  of  life  you  have  so  sadly 

chosen, 
I'd  rather   be  a  single  wife  than  one  in  half  a 

dozen  ; 
But  now   you   cannot    change   your   plan,  tho' 

health  and  spirit  perish, 
And  I  shall  never  see  a  man  but  you  to  love  and 

cherish. 


140  LAST  EPISTLE  OF  ST.  ABE. 

Take   me,   I'm   yours,   and   O,   my   dear,    don't 

think  I  miss  your  merit, 
I'll  try  to  help  a  little  here  your  true  and  loving 

spirit." 
"  Reflect,  my  love,"  I  said,  "  once  more,"  with 

bursting  heart,  half  crying, 
"  Two  of  the  girls  cut  very  sore,  and  most  of 

them  are  trying !  " 
And  then  that  gentle-hearted  maid  kissed  me 

and  bent  above  me, 
"  O  Abe,"  she  said,  "  don't  be  afraid,— I'll  try  to 

make  them  love  me  !" 

Ah  well !  I  scarcely  stopt  to  ask  myself,  till  all 
was  over, 

How  precious  tough  would  be  her  task  who 
made  those  dear  souls  love  her  ! 

But  I  was  seal'd  to  Sister  Anne,  and  straight- 
way to  my  wonder 

A  series  of  events  began  which  show'd  me  all 
my  blunder. 


HOW  THE  SIX  DECLARED  BATTLE.    141 

Brother,  don't  blame  the  souls  who  erred  thro* 
their  excess  of  feeling — 

So  angrily  their  hearts  were  stirred  by  my  last 
act  of  sealing ; 

But  in  a  moment  they  forgot  the  quarrels  they'd 
been  wrapt  in, 

And  leagued  together  in  one  lot,  with  Tabby  for 
the  Captain. 

Their  little  tiffs  were  laid  aside,  and  all  com- 
bined together, 

Preparing  for  the  gentle  Bride  the  blackest  sort 
of  weather. 

It  wasn't  feeling  made  them  flout  poor  Annie  in 
that  fashion, 

It  wasn't  love  turn'd  inside  out,  it  wasn't  jealous 
passion, 

It  wasn't  that  they  cared  for  me,  or  any  other 
party, 

Their  hearts  and  sentiments  were  free,  their  ap- 
petites were  hearty. 


142  LAST  EPISTLE  OF  ST.  ABE. 

But  when  the  pretty  smiling  face  came  blossom- 
ing and  blooming, 
Like  sunshine  in  a  shady  place  the  fam'ly  Vault 

illuming, 
It  naturally  made  them  grim  to  see  its  sunny 

colour, 
While  like  a  row  of  tapers  dim  by  daylight,  they 

grew  duller. 
She  .tried  her  best   to   make   them    kind,    she 

coaxed  and  served  them  dumbly, 
She  watch'd  them  with  a  willing  mind,  deferred 

to  them  most  humbly  ; 
Tried  hard  to  pick  herself  a  friend,  but  found  her 

arts  rejected, 
And  fail'd   entirely  in  her  end,  as  one  might 

have  expected. 
But,  Brother,  tho'  I'm  loathe  to  add  one  word  to 

criminate  them, 
I  think  their  conduct  was  too  bad, — it  almost 

made  me  hate  them. 


HOW  SISTER  ANNE  GREW  SAD.       143 

Ah  me,  the  many  nagging  ways  of  women  are 

amazing, 
Their  cleverness  solicits  praise,  their  cruelty  is 

crazing ! 
And  Sister  Annie  hadn't  been  a  single  day  their 

neighbour, 
Before  a  baby  could  have  seen  her  life  would  be 

a  labour. 
But  bless   her  little   loving  heart,   it  kept   its 

sorrow  hidden, 
And  if  the  tears  began  to  start,  suppressed  the 

same  unbidden. 
She  tried  to  smile,   and  smiled  her  best,  till  I 

thought  sorrow  silly, 
And  kept  in  her  own  garden  nest,  and  lit  it  like 

a  lily. 
O  I  should  waste  your  time  for  days  with  talk 

like  this  at  present, 
If  I  described  her  thousand  ways  of  making 

things  look  pleasant ! 


J44  LAST  EPISTLE  OF  ST.  ABE. 

But,  bless  you,  'twere  as  well  to  try,  when 
thunder's  at  its  dire  work, 

To  clear  the  air,  and  light  the  sky,  by  penny- 
worths of  firework. 

These  gentle  ways  to  hide  her  woe  and  make 
my  life  a  blessing, 

Just  made  the  after  darkness  grow  more  gloomy 
and  depressing. 

Taunts,  mocks,  and  jeers,  coldness  and  sneers, 
insult  and  trouble  daily, 

A  thousand  stabs  that  brought  the  tears,  all 
these  she  cover' d  gaily ;  . 

But  when  her  fond  eyes  fell  on  me,  the  light  of 
love  to  borrow, 

And  Sister  Anne  began  to  see  I  knew  her  secret 
sorrow, 

All  of  a  sudden  like  a  mask  the  loving  cheat 
forsook  her. 

And  reckon  I  had  all  my  task,  for  illness  over- 
took her. 


HOW  SISTER  ANNE  FELL  SICK.       145 

She  took  to  bed,  grew  sad  and  thin,  seem'd  like 

a  spirit  flying, 
Smiled  thro'  her  tears  when  I  went  in,  but  when 

I  left  fell  crying  ; 
And  as  she  languish'd  in  her  bed,  as  weak  and 

wan  as  water, 
I  thought  of  what  her  father  said,  "  Take  care  of 

my  dear  daughter ! " 
Then  I  look'd  round  with  secret  eye  upon  her 

many  Sisters, 
And  close  at  hand  I  saw  them  lie,  ready  for  use 

— like  blisters  ; 
They  seemed  with  secret  looks  of  glee,  to  keep 

their  wifely  station ; 
They   set   their  lips   and   sneer'd   at   me,    and 

watch'd  the  situation. 

0  Brother,  I  can  scarce  express  the  agony  of 

those  moments, 

1  fear  your  perfect  saintliness,  and  dread  your 

cutting  comments ! 

L 


146  LAST  EPISTLE  OF  ST.  ABE. 

I  prayed,  I  wept,  I  moan'd,  I  cried,  I  anguish'd 

night  and  morrow, 
I   watch' d    and    waited,    sleepless-eyed,    beside 

that  bed  of  sorrow. 

At  last  I  knew,  in  those  dark  days  of  sorrow 

and  disaster, 
Mine  wasn't  soil  where  you  could  raise  a  Saint 

up,  or  a  Pastor ; 
In  spite  of  careful  watering,  and  tilling  night 

and  morning, 
The  weeds  of  vanity  would   spring   without   a 

word  of  warning. 
I  was  and  ever  must  subsist,  labell'd  on  every 

feature, 
A  wretched  poor   Monogamist,  a   most   inferior 

creature — 
Just  half  a  soul,  and  half  a  mind,  a  blunder  and 

abortion, 
Not    finished    half   till   I   could   find   the   other 

missing  portion  ! 


ST.  ABE  REGISTERETH  A    VOW.        147 

And  gazing  on  that  missing  part  which  I  at  last 

had  found  out, 
I  murmur'd  with  a  burning  heart,  scarce  strong 

to  get  the  sound  out, 
"  If  from  the  greedy  clutch  of  Fate  I  save  this 

chief  of  treasures, 

I  will  no  longer  hesitate,  but  take  decided  mea- 
sures ! 
A  poor  monogamist  like  me  can  not  love  half  a 

dozen, 
Better  by  far,  then,  set  them  free !  and  take  the 

Wife  I've  chosen  ! 
Their   love  for  me,  of  course,  is  small,  a  very 

shadowy  tittle, 
They  will  not  miss  my  face  at  all,  or  miss  it  very 

little. 
I  can't  undo  what  I  have  done,  by  my  forlorn 

embraces, 
And  call  the  brightness  of  the  sun  again  into 

their  faces ; 


148  LAST  EPISTLE  OF  ST.  ABE. 

But   I  can  save  one  spirit  true,   confiding   and 

unthinking, 
From  slowly  curdling  to  a  shrew  or  into  swine- 

dom  sinking/1 
These  were  my  bitter  words  of  woe,  my  fears 

were  so  distressing, 
Not  that  I  would  reflect — O  no ! — on  any  living 

blessing. 

Thus,  Brother,  I  resolved,  and  when  she  rose, 
still  frail  and  sighing, 

I  kept  my  word  like  better  men,  and  bolted, — 
and  I'm  flying. 

Into  oblivion  I  haste,  and  leave  the  world  be- 
hind me, 

Afar  unto  the  starless  waste,  where  not  a  soul 
shall  find  me. 

I  send  my  love,  and  Sister  Anne  joins  cordially, 
agreeing 

I  never  was  the  sort  of  man  for  your  high  state 
of  being; 


ST.  ABE  BIDDETH  FAREWELL  TO  EDEN.   149 

Such  as  I  am,  she  takes  me,  though ;  and  after 

years  of  trying, 
From  Eden  hand  in  hand  we  go,  like  our  first 

parents  flying ; 
And  like  the  bright  sword  that  did  chase  the 

first  of  sons  and  mothers, 
Shines  dear  Tabitha's  flaming  face,  surrounded 

by  the  others  : 
Shining  it  threatens  there  on  high,  above  the 

gates  of  heaven, 
And  faster  at  the  sight  we  fly,  in  naked  shame, 

forth-driven. 
Nothing  of  all  my  worldly  store  I  take,  'twould 

be  improper, 
I  go  a  pilgrim,  strong  and  poor,  without  a  single 

copper. 

Unto  my  Widows  I  outreach  my  property  com- 
pletely. 
There's   modest  competence   for   each,   if   it  is 

managed  neatly. 


i5o  LAST  EPISTLE  OF  ST.  ABE. 

That,  Brother,  is  a  labour  left  to  your  sagacious 

keeping  ;— 
Comfort  them,  comfort  the  bereft !  I'm  good  as 

dead  and  sleeping ! 
A  fallen  star,  a  shooting  light,  a  portent  and  an 

omen, 
A  moment  passing  on  the  sight,  thereafter  seen 

by  no  men  ! 
I   go,  with  backward  looking  face,  and   spirit 

rent  asunder. 

0  may  you  prosper  in  your  place,  for  you're  a 

shining  wonder ! 
So    strong,  so   sweet,    so   mild,    so   good ! — by 

Heaven's  dispensation, 
Made  Husband  to  a  multitude  and  Father  to  a 

nation  ! 
May  all  the   saintly   life  ensures   increase   and 

make  you  stronger! 

1  lumbly  and  penitently  yours, 

A.  CLEWSON  (Saint  no  longer]. 


THE  FARM  IN  THE  VALLEY— SUNSET. 
(1871.) 


THE  FARM  IN  THE  VALLEY. 


STILL  the  saintly  City  stands, 
Wondrous  work  of  busy  hands ; 
Still  the  lonely  City  thrives, 
Rich  in  worldly  goods  and  wives, 
And  with  thrust-out  jaw  and  set 
Teeth,  the  Yankee  threatens  yet— 
Half  admiring  and  half  riled, 
Oft  by  bigger  schemes  beguiled, 
Turning  off  his  curious  stare 
To  communities  elsewhere, 
Always  with  unquiet  eye 
Watching  Utah  on  the  sly. 


154          THE  FARM  IN  THE  VALLEY. 

Long  the  City  of  the  Plain 
Left  its  image  on  my  brain  : 
White  kiosks  and  gardens  bright 
Rising  in  a  golden  light ; 
Busy  figures  everywhere 
Bustling  bee-like  in  the  glare ; 
And  from  dovecots  in  green  places, 
Peep'd  out  weary  women's  faces, 
Flushing  faint  to  a  thin  cry 
From  the  nursery  hard  by. 
And  the  City  in  my  thought 
Slept  fantastically  wrought, 
Till  the  whole  began  to  seem 
Like  a  curious  Eastern  dream, 
Like  the  pictures  strange  we  scan 
In  the  tales  Arabian  : 
Tales  of  magic  art  and  sleight, 
Cities  rising  in  a  night, 
And  of  women  richly  clad, 
Dark-eyed,  melancholy,  sad, 


AFTER  FIVE  YEARS.  155 

Ever  with  a  glance  uncertain, 
Trembling  at  the  purple  curtain, 
Lest  behind  the  black  slave  stand 
With  the  bowstring  in  his  hand  ;— 
Happy  tales,  within  whose  heart 
Founts  of  weeping  eyes  upstart, 
Told,  to  save  her  pretty  head, 
By  Scheherazad  in  bed  I 


All  had  faded  and  grown  faint, 
Save  the  figure  of  the  Saint 
Who  that  memorable  night 
Left  the  Children  of  the  Light, 
Flying  o'er  the  lonely  plain 
From  his  lofty  sphere  of  pain. 
Oft  his  gentle  face  would  flit 
O'er  my  mind  and  puzzle  it, 
Ever  waking  up  meanwhile 
Something  of  a  merry  smile, 


i$6          THE  FARM  IN  THE  VALLEY, 

Whose  quick  light  illumined  me 
During  many  a  reverie, 
When  I  puffed  my  weed  alone. 

Faint  and  strange  the  face  had  grown, 

Tho'  for  five  long  years  or  so 

I  had  watched  it  come  and  go, 

When,  on  busy  thoughts  intent, 

I  into  New  England  went, 

And  one  evening,  riding  slow 

By  a  River  that  I  know, 

(Gentle  stream  !     I  hide  thy  name, 

Far  too  modest  thou  for  fame  !) 

I  beheld  the  landscape  swim 

In  the  autumn  hazes  dim, 

And  from  out  the  neighbouring  dales 

Heard  the  thumping  of  the  flails. 

All  was  hush'd  ;  afar  away 
(As  a  novelist  would  say) 


SUNSET  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.  157 

Sank  the  mighty  orb  of  day, 
Staring  with  a  hazy  glow 
On  the  purple  plain  below, 
Where  (like  burning  embers  shed 
From  the  sunset's  glowing  bed, 
Dying  out  or  burning  bright, 
Every  leaf  a  blaze  of  light) 
Ran  the  maple  swamps  ablaze ; 
Everywhere  amid  the  Ijaze, 
Floating  strangely  in  the  air, 
Farms  and  homesteads  gather' d  fair  ; 
And  the  River  rippled  slow 
Thro'  the  marshes  green  and  low, 
Spreading  oft  as  smooth  as  glass 
As  it  fringed  the  meadow  grass, 
Making  'mong  the  misty  fields 
Pools  like  golden  gleaming  shields. 

Thus  I  walked  my  steed  along, 
Humming  a  low  scrap  of  song, 


158          THE  FARM  IN  THE  VALLEY. 

Watching  with  an  idle  eye 
White  clouds  in  the  dreamy  sky 
Sailing  with  me  in  slow  pomp. 
In  the  bright  flush  of  the  swamp, 
While  his  dogs  bark'd  in  the  wood, 
Gun  in  hand  the  sportsman  stood ; 
And  beside  me,  wading  deep, 
Stood  the  angler  half  asleep, 
Figure  black  against  the  gleam 
Of  the  bright  pools  of  the  stream  ; 
Now  and  then  a  wherry  brown 
With  the  current  drifted  down 
Sunset-ward,  and  as  it  went 
Made  an  oar-splash  indolent ; 
While  with  solitafy  sound, 
Deepening  the  silence  round, 
In  a  voice  of  mystery 
Faintly  cried  the  chickadee. 


THE  HOMESTEADS.  159 

Suddenly  the  River's  arm 
Rounded,  and  a  lonely  Farm 
Stood  before  me  blazing  red 
To  the  bright  blaze  overhead  ; 
In  the  homesteads  at  its  side, 
Cattle  lowed  and  voices  cried, 
And  from  out  the  shadows  dark 
Came  a  mastiff's  measured  bark. 
Fair  and  fat  stood  the  abode 
On  the  path  by  which  I  rode, 
And  a  mighty  orchard,  strown 
Still  with  apple-leaves  wind-blown, 
Raised  its  branches  gnarl'd  and  bare 
Black  against  the  sunset  air, 
And  with  greensward  deep  and  dim, 
Wander'd  to  the  River's  brim. 


Close  beside  the  orchard  walk 
Linger'd  one  in  quiet  talk 


160          THE  FARM  IN  THE  VALLEY. 

With  a  man  in  workman's  gear. 

As  my  horse's  feet  drew  near, 

The  labourer  nodded  rough  "good-day,' 

Turned  his  back  and  loung'd  away. 

Then  the  first,  a  plump  and  fat 

Yeoman  in  a  broad  straw  hat, 

Stood  alone  in  thought  intent, 

Watching  while  the  other  went, 

And  amid  the  sunlight  red 

Paused,  with  hand  held  to  his  head. 


In  a  moment,  like  a  word 
Long  forgotten  until  heard, 
Like  a  buried  sentiment 
Born  again  to  some  stray  scent, 
Like  a  sound  to  which  the  brain 
Gives  familiar  refrain, 
Something  in  the  gesture  brought 
Things  forgotten  to  my  thought ; 


THE  STRANGER  PASSETH.  i&< 

Memory,  as  I  watched  the  sight, 
Flashed  from  eager  light  to  light. 
Remember'd  'and  remember'd  not, 
Half  familiar,  half  forgot, 
Stood  the  figure,  till  at  last, 
Bending  eyes  on  his,  I  passed, 
Gazed  again,  as  loth  to  go, 
Drew  the  rein,  stopt  short,  and  so 
Rested,  looking  back  ;  when  he, 
The  object  of  my  scrutiny, 
Smiled  and  nodded,  saying,  "  Yes ! 
Stare  your  fill,  young  man  !     I  guess 
You'll  know  me  if  we  meet  again  I" 

In  a  moment  all  my  brain 
Was  illumined  at  the  tone, 
All  was  vivid  that  had  grown 
Faint  and  dim,  and  straight  I  knew  him, 
Holding  out  my  hand  unto  him, 
Smiled,  and  called  him  by  his  name. 
M 


1 62          THE  FARM  IN  THE  VALLEY. 

Wondering,  hearing  me  exclaim, 
.Abraham  Clewson  (for  'twas  he) 
Came  more  close  and  gazed  at  me. 
As  he  gazed,  a  merry  grin 
Brighten'd  down  from  eyes  to  chin  : 
In  a  moment  he,  too,  knew  me, 
Reaching  out  his  hand  unto  me, 
Crying  "  Track'd,  by  all  that's  blue ! 
Who'd  have  thought  of  seeing  your* 

Then,  in  double  quicker  time 
Than  it  takes  to  make  the  rhyme, 
Abe,  with  face  of  welcome  bright, 
Made  me  from  my  steed  alight ; 
Call'd  a  boy,  and  bade  him  lead 
The  beast  away  to  bed  and  feed  ; 
And,  with  hand  upon  my  arm, 
Led  me  off  into  the  Farm, 
Where,  amid  a  dwelling-place 
Fresh  and  bright  as  her  own  face, 


ST.  ABE  AND  SISTER  ANNE.          163 

With  a  gleam  of  shining  ware 
For  a  background  everywhere, 
Free  as  any  summer  breeze, 
With  a  bunch  of  huswife's  keys 
At  her  girdle,  sweet  and  mild 
Sister  Annie  blush'd  and  smiled, — 
While  two  tiny  laughing  girls, 
Peeping  at  me  through  their  curls, 
Hid  their  sweet  shamefacedness 
In  the  skirts  of  Annie's  dress. 


That  same  night  the  Saint  and  I 
Sat  and  talked  of  times  gone  by, 
Smoked  our  pipes  and  drank  our  grog 
By  the  slowly  smouldering  log, 
While  the  clock's  hand  slowly  crept 
To  midnight,  and  the  household  slept. 


164          THE  FARM  IN  THE  VALLEY. 

"  Happy  ?"  Abe  said  with  a  smile, 

"  Yes,  in  my  inferior  style, 

Meek  and  humble,  not  like  them 

In  the  New  Jerusalem." 

Here  his  hand,  as  if  astray, 

For  a  moment  found  its  way 

To  his  forehead,  as  he  said, 

"Reckon  they  believe  I'm  dead! 

Ah,  that  life  of  sanctity 

Never  was  the  life  for  me. 

Couldn't  stand  it  wet  nor  dry, 

Hated  to  see  women  cry ; 

Couldn't  bear  to  be  the  cause 

Of  tiffs  and  squalls  and  endless  jaws 

Always  felt  amid  the  stir 

Jest  a  whited  sepulchre  ; 

And  I  did  the  best  I  could 

When  I  ran  away  for  good. 

Yet,  for   many  a  night,  you  know 

(Annie,  too,  would  tell  you  so), 


.  ABE  SURVEYETH  THE  PAST.      165 


Couldn't  sleep  a  single  wink, 
Couldn't  eat,  and  couldn't  drink, 
Being  kind  of  conscience-cleft 
For  those  poor  creatures  I  had  left. 
Not  till  I  got  news  from  there, 
And  I  found  their  fate  was  fair, 
Could  I  set  to  work,  or  find 
Any  comfort  in  my  mind. 
Well  (here  Abe  smiled  quietly), 
Guess  they  didn't  groan  for  me  ! 
Fanny  and  Amelia  got 
Sealed  to  Brigham  on  the  spot  ; 
Emmy  soon  consoled  herself 
In  the  arms  of  Brother  Delf  ; 
And  poor  Mary  one  fine  day 
Packed  her  traps  and  tript  away 
Down  to  Fresco  with  Fred  Bates, 
A  young  player  from  the  States  ; 
While  Sarah,  'twas  the  wisest  plan, 
Pick'd  herself  a  single  man  — 


1 66          THE  FARM  IN  THE  VALLEY. 

A  young  joiner  fresh  come  down 
Out  of  Texas  to  the  town — 
And  he  took  her  with  her  baby, 
And  they're  doing  well  as  maybe." 

Here  the  Saint  with  quiet  smile, 
Sipping  at  his  grog  the  while, 
Paused  as  if  his  tale  was  o'er, 
Held  his  tongue  and  said  no  more. 
"  Good,"  I  said,  "  but  have  you  done  ? 
You  have  spoke  of  all  save  one — 
All  your  Widows,  so  bereft, 
Are  most  comfortably  left, 
But  of  one  alone  you  said 
Nothing.     Is  the  lady  dead  ?  " 

Then  the  good  man's  features  broke 
Into  brightness  as  I  spoke, 
And  with  loud  guffaw  cried  he, 
"  What,  Tabitha  r     Dead  !     Not  she  ! 


LAST  GLIMPSE  OF  SISTER  TABITHA.    167 

All  alone  and  doing  splendid — 

Jest  you  guess,  now,  how  she's  ended  ! 

Give  it  up  ?     This  very  week 

I  heard  she's  at  Oneida  Creek, 

All  alone  and  doing  hearty, 

Down  with  Brother  Noyes's  party. 

Tried  the  Shakers  first,  they  say, 

Tired  of  them  and  went  away, 

Testing  with  a  deal  of  bother 

This  community  and  t'other, 

Till  she  to  Oneida  flitted, 

And  with  trouble  got  admitted. 

Bless  you,  she's  a  shining  lamp, 

Tho'  I  used  her  like  a  scamp, 

And  she's  great  in  exposition 

Of  the  Free  Love  folk's  condition, 

Vowing,  tho*  she  found  it  late, 

'Tis  the  only  happy  state.  .  .  . 

"  As  for  me/'  added  the  speaker, 

"  I'm  lower  in  the  scale,  and  weaker ; 


1 68          THE  FARM  IN  THE  VALLEY. 

Polygamy's  beyond  my  merits, 
Shakerism  wears  the  spirits, 
And  as  for  Free  Love,  why  you  see 
(Here  the  Saint  wink'd  wickedly) 
With  my  whim  it  might  have  hung 
Once,  when  I  was  spry  and  young ; 
But  poor  Annie's  love  alone 
Keeps  my  mind  in  proper  tone, 
And  tho*  my  spirit  mayn't  be  strong, 
I'm  lively — as  the  day  is  long." 


As  he  spoke  with  half  a  yawn, 
Half  a  smile,  I  saw  the  dawn 
Creeping  faint  into  the  gloom 
Of  the  quickly-chilling  room. 
On  the  hearth  the  wood-log  lay, 
With  one  last  expiring  ray  ; 
Draining  off  his  glass  of  grog, 
Clewson  rose  and  kick'd  the  log ; 


TO  BED!  169 

As  it  crumbled  into  ashes, 
Watched  the  last  expiring  flashes, 
Gave  another  yawn  and  said, 
"Well !  I  guess  it's  time  for  bed  1" 


THE  END. 


LANGE  &  IIILLMAN,  PRINTERS  &  STEREOTYPERS, 
108, 110,  112  &  114  WooPter  Street,  New  York. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  5O  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


APR  29  U 


JUL   26  1845 


9258S1 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


VC151281 


